


Not Sweet Enough

by gutterson



Category: Justified
Genre: Age Difference - 42/29, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dubious Morality, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 84,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutterson/pseuds/gutterson
Summary: Mark keeps telling Tim he needs to get a boyfriend. What Tim really needs is to not get killed by Harlan's new criminal savant, and for Raylan Givens to stop being so damn good looking.





	1. Mark Ark, bo Bark

**Author's Note:**

> Almost all of my works got deleted from my account. I'll slowly start putting them all back up, starting with this one.

MONDAY 

  

“So, you find yourself a boyfriend yet?” is the first thing Mark asks as he's sliding into Tim's SUV, out front of the VA building. He tries to hide it, but Tim can see his hand shaking as he does up his seat-belt. He doesn't say anything about it, never does, but his gaze follows Mark's hands where they move to twist into the fabric of his jacket. 

“You think askin’ me shit you know I don’t want to talk about is gonna make me any less pissed off at you for falling off the wagon?” Tim snaps, in as much as a man who talks as slowly as him can snap. He knows that it _will_ work though, knows that Mark averting his attention works every god damn time. 

“Genuine curiosity. You look like you could use a good dicking, Guts.” Mark smiles, and Tim just glares at him for it.  "And I didn't fall off the wagon, not really." 

“No, you're right. You didn't fall off the wagon. You pushed the whole damn thing over the side of the cliff, and it's still rolling it's sweet ass down." Tim huffs. He finally tears his eyes from Mark's hands, looking up but not meeting Mark's eyes. It's mostly because he doesn't want to know what he'd find there. 

"So, no boyfriend then?" is all Mark says after a moment. 

"The only men I meet are the men I'm arresting or shooting. Not exactly strong candidates.” Tim says through his teeth as he starts the SUV. As much as he doesn’t want to talk about his dating situation, he knows it’s impossible to shake Mark off when he is _genuinely curious_. Mark asks him if he has a boyfriend every time they see each other, which is almost every day. He doesn't know why he bothers, Tim knows damn well he wears it on his face when he gets laid. Mark tells him he gets a glow. 

“What about your fellow Deputies? Don’t tell me you’re the hottest guy in the office, that will break my heart.” Mark is looking out the window as they pull out of the parking space, so Tim can’t see his face, but he can hear the smirk in the assholes’ voice. 

“You bet your fucking life I’m the hottest son of a bitch in that office.” Tim can’t help but smile, his fondness for Mark bleeding through his disappointment with every second he spends at the man's side. “And in any case, even if there were someone worth looking at, which there isn’t, it’s not like there would be any real casual way to find out if we’re facing the same way on the swing set.” 

“Just say, hey, do you by any chance like a good penis every now and then? And if so would you like a free sample of mine?” Mark turns to look at Tim, his expression dead serious. 

“Would I really need to clarify that it would be free?” Tim asks, cocking his head in Mark’s direction. He clucks his tongue angrily when the car he pulls out behind is going a little too slow for his liking, and he's thinking about crossing the double yellow to get around it. 

“Well now, Guts, you wouldn’t want a federal officer thinking you were offering your body in exchange for money. That’s illegal, Deputy. Shame on you.” Mark cracks a real smile, and the sight of it warms Tim's heart. 

Most of the time Tim gets to spend with Mark recently is the time he spends pulling him out of benders and forcing him to NA meetings. Lately Mark had been doing good, really damn good, until suddenly he wasn't. Tim wanted to be really angry, but it had been three years of this shit and he had resigned himself to watching Mark fail time and time again. All he could really do now was savor the small moments of genuine _good_ they got together. They'd been discharged at the same time, and while Tim had thrown himself immediately into the Marshal service, Mark had thrown himself immediately into digging his own grave. Tim knew that if he'd been denied by the Marshals for whatever reason, he'd have had it worse. Going back to being a full on _civilian_ after being a soldier for so long, he couldn't really imagine. It was hard enough that every time he woke up in a soft bed felt like a kick in the teeth. 

Tim understands Mark, better than he even understands himself sometimes, and he can't hate the guy for what he's become. He hates it because he loves Mark, loves him like a brother, and feels guilt and grief every time he sees pain in the man's life. He used to think that one day Mark would get better, but he knows now that there is no such thing as _better_ for someone like Mark. Hell, there isn't even a better for someone like Tim, someone who still sleeps with a gun under his pillow and an old recording of war footage playing on loop in the background just so he feels safe. 

Tim finally gives in to his own impatience and crosses the line to get around the car going too slow (three miles over the limit, in reality) just as his phone starts buzzing from it's spot in his cup holder. Tim knows it's work, and Mark knows it's work, because who else would it be? Mark's shoulders slag the tiniest bit, because Tim had promised they could go get lunch, and work calling meant that wasn't going to happen. 

"Get that for me, will you, Scarponi? Put it on speaker." Tim tells Mark, noting the way the man's eyes light up at being given permission to insert himself into Tim's work life a little bit, even if just by answering the phone for him. Mark loves the little things. 

"You've reached Deputy US Marshal Timothy Gutterson, he is currently driving, very poorly to be honest. Speed limits exist for a reason, my god." Mark chuckles into the phone, even as Tim smacks him for being a smart ass. 

"Who the fuck is this?" comes Raylan's rough reply, and Mark frowns down at the phone. His eyes flicker to Tim, and he seems to be asking for permission. Knowing Mark as well as he does, Tim doesn't have to wonder what he's asking permission for. He wants to mess with the rude man on the other end of the phone, and Tim nods his head in affirmation. 

"Non-deputized US Citizen Mark Scarponi, how may I help you today?" Mark sings, and Tim laughs silently through his nose. 

"You can tell me where the fuck Tim is. Tim!" Raylan calls, sounding more annoyed than worried. 

"I already told you, he is driving like a mad man. If you'd like to leave a message, I would be more than happy to give it to him," Mark taps the screen to get it to light up so he can read the contact information. "Raylan Givens. I like the picture he has set for you. Do you sleep in the car often? Seems counterproductive." Mark says all of this before Tim can stop him, but it's obvious that Mark doesn't miss the look of anger on Tim's face. 

"Excuse me?" Raylan asks slowly, like he doesn't understand what Mark is saying. Which he might not, since Tim has never exactly told Raylan that he sometimes sneaks pictures of him during their stakeouts. 

"The hell do you want, Raylan?" Tim asks, scowling at Mark, who just shrugs. 

"I need your help with something. What the hell is going on over there, exactly?" Raylan asks, and now he's starting to sound worried. 

"Help with what?" Tim ignores Raylan's question, as well as Mark smirking beside him. 

"Come to the motel and I will tell you." Raylan says, using a tone of voice Tim has come to recognize as _I'm-confused-and-I-don't-like-it_. Unfortunately, as soon as Mark hears the word 'motel' he lets out a low whistle, waggling his eyebrows at Tim. 

"Shut your mouth, Scarponi." Tim warns, and sees Mark go serious at the tone in his voice. "I'll be there in an hour, gotta put this asshole down for a nap first." Tim tells Raylan. 

"Right. See you in an hour." Raylan just barely manages to not make it a question. 

"Have a nice day Raylan Givens." Mark yells into the phone before hanging up and dropping it back into Tim's cup holder. 

"Scarponi," Tim starts, but Mark cuts him off. 

"You lying sack of shit." Mark laughs. "Trying to tell me you're the hottest guy in the office. You can only see fifty percent of that man's face in that picture, and just that is hotter than one hundred percent of your everything. Raylan Givens. You should totally date him." 

  

\-- 

  

Helping Raylan usually amounted to standing behind him, looking surly, and inserting a joke or two while Raylan yelled at some hillbillies. Today was no different, and Tim was more than a little annoyed by the time he got home. Lyman Berger had shot and killed a state trooper last week, but Raylan hadn't even brought that up in the conversation with the man. All he had asked about was Boyd Crowder this, Boyd Crowder that, Boyd fucking Crowder. The Marshal service was after Berger, but Raylan had only caught the "known associates: Boyd Crowder" part of the man's file before getting himself all worked up over nothing. Tim had only met Boyd a couple of times, and mostly got the vague impression of an angry cartoon cactus from the man. Tim was really getting sick of him though, because he seemed to be everywhere Raylan turned, and Raylan kept making Tim spin around in circles with him. 

He wasn't sure why he did it to himself, but he had more shit to worry about than anybody rightfully should. He had work, which was a stressful enough occupation on it's own, but it now came with Raylan Givens as an added bonus. He had Mark, who he would always take care of no matter how much he fucked up, and who seemed to live primarily these days to get on Tim's nerves about boys. He had a landlord who hated him, a cat with asthma, at least four overdue library books he had no intention of ever returning (because he was the _law_ and Mrs. Egberton could go fuck herself if she wanted to try and pry Mystics Of Greenfalls from his hands), and just for fun he had his own PTSD and general lack of meaningful emotional connections to deal with. 

Mark asked him all the time why he didn't date, and he'd come up with a lot of answers besides the truth. He told Mark it was the old Don't Ask Don't Tell getting in his way, or he was too busy, or he didn't have any options, or any number of bullshit lines he knew Mark would buy for a minute. The truth was, simply, that he wouldn't wish himself on anybody. He was a mess on good days, and a raging fool on bad. He was sure there was probably, somewhere out there, a man who could handle him and all his shit. The problem was, Tim didn't want to be _handled_. He didn't want to be the reason his partner didn't get to sleep through the night, whether it be because of his nightmares waking them, or because he hadn't come home from work and they might be worried he was dead. He didn't need to be somebody's burden. 

There is also, of course, _that_. Tim doesn't let himself think about _that_. The real reason he can't be with anybody, the real reason he can't commit, can't ever imagine being in love. _That_ is still a gaping hole in his heart that he's never even attempted to repair. 

"You're the only man I need in my life, anyway." Tim whispers to Chilipepper as he sets the bowl of food in front of the tiny orange puff of fur. Tim had found Chilipepper in Iraq, had carried him around under his vest for three weeks, and had been genuinely surprised when he got home and the vet told him Chili was at least two years old and not going to grow any more passed the six pounds he weighed. He was slightly fatter and fluffier now, but he could still sit comfortably in Tim's hands. Tim was scratching Chilipepper behind the ears, smiling at the sounds the cat made while trying to purr and eat at the same time, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Tim didn't have to look at the notification to know who the text was from. 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[2245]:** ill meet you at 0600 tomorrow 

 **Outgoing [2245]:** Fuck you. 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[2246]:** thanks for the help today 

 **Outgoing [2246]:** Still fuck you. 

  

TUESDAY 

  

Tim didn't have a crush on Raylan. It wasn't as complex as that, and that would have required him to actually _like_ the guy a little more. He just had minor respect for him as a deputy, and an appreciation for him as a man with a good body and face. He hadn't really thought much about the second part of that until he'd slept overnight on the floor next to Raylan's bed and had been subjected to watching the man get changed. Raylan wasn't the kind of guy to be shy of taking off his clothes in front of another man, probably especially since he didn't know Tim was gay. Tim had felt slightly guilty as he turned away after catching a glimpse of Raylan tugging at his jeans. He'd only noticed _after_ that how nice Raylan's hands were and how well his shirts fit him. Raylan was damn good looking, and sure maybe Tim had felt a tiny stirring of _something_ in that brief moment when Raylan had first woken up and turned to look over at him, but it wasn't a crush. 

"It's a crush." Art says, snapping Tim from his thoughts. "She'll get over it." 

"You're kidding, right?" Raylan asks, leaning against the side of Art's couch with his arms crossed, looming over Tim in a way that he pretended didn't bother him. 

"More like hopeful thinking. Ava being in love with Boyd means her protecting him, which is pretty low on the list of things that sound like good news for us." Art says. 

"Boyd Crowder isn't our problem." Tim reminds them both, ignoring the snort and dirty look he gets from Raylan. "Lyman Berger is our problem. Or did you forget that he threatened to cut your face off last night, Raylan?" 

"It was just my mouth he said he was gonna cut off, and I certainly remember you laughing as he said it. Besides, Lyman being a problem doesn't mean Boyd suddenly _isn't_." Raylan says with his jaw clenched. 

"Whatever boner you have for Boyd can wait until he actually does something illegal, how about that?" Tim looks up at Raylan, but Raylan doesn't look back, just glares in Art's direction. 

"Lyman is our top priority." Art tells Raylan, and Tim feels, not for the first time, like Art is their surrogate father, trying to look like he doesn't play favorites even though everybody knows he does, and it's Raylan. 

"Lyman used to work for Boyd, maybe still does." Raylan says, but all three of them know that he's reaching. 

"We'll always be keeping an eye on Boyd, Raylan. Staying updated on him won't hurt, so be my guest, but just make sure that in the mean time, you get Lyman Berger off the streets." Art says. 

"You have to want this guy Raylan, he's your favorite kind of fucked up." Tim smiles, still looking up at Raylan. Raylan still isn't looking back. 

"His file is just as thick as Boyd's, and now that he's killed an officer, we need to bag this son of a bitch once and for all." Art gives Raylan a look. 

"I get it." Raylan snaps. 

"Good. Tim can sort through what we already have, see if anything pops out." Art sighs, and Tim takes it as a dismissal. He straightens his back a little further than usual as he passes Raylan, and with the way the man is leaned to the side, he can pretend like they're the same height. It's not that Tim would ever admit to being short, but he will admit that Raylan makes him _feel_ that way sometimes. He refuses to think about the four inch difference in their naked height, and just throws himself down into his desk chair dramatically, swinging his arms around for a moment, letting out a groan. Nobody is even looking at him to appreciate his fake agony though, so he straightens up and turns to his computer 

Tim pretends like he isn't watching Raylan and Art through Art's window, just like he's pretending he's actually doing work and not just looking at an article about how to make your own beer bong. Tim had always been tempted to try and get into Raylan's military records, to try and figure out how the hell a man like that survived so much as basic. Raylan was the kind of man who generally did the exact opposite of what he was told, after all. Tim didn't want to think about how much time Raylan had spent in the front leaning rest for talking back or just doing whatever the fuck he wanted. Tim would never really be broken of the habits the military instilled in him, but Raylan struck him as someone who never had them in the first place. He didn't give the illusion of respecting Art when he didn't agree with him on something, and most times didn't even pretend like he was listening when being told something he didn't want to hear. In fact, he isn't even looking at Art right now, he’s turned to the window, looking at the coffee machine longingly while Art talks on in the background. 

Tim turns his attention back to the article when Raylan leaves Art's office, only catching a glimpse of the man's hips as he saunters passed Tim's desk. It was a truly stupid design decision, that all the desks in here were at the perfect height to put Raylan Givens' crotch in your face all the time. 

"You want to come with me to talk to Berger's niece." Raylan says, and it's not a question. Tim side-eyes him through the glass between their desks. 

"Last time you got so mixed up in Harlan shit, you got shot at." Tim reminds him. 

"Exactly, I got shot _at_ , but they missed." Raylan counters. 

"Doyle Bennett still tried to kill you." Tim says it like it should matter, even though they both know somebody is pretty much always trying to kill Raylan. 

"Yes, and you killed Doyle Bennett and saved my life instead. Therefore, you're coming with me." Raylan grins. 

"What else would I do with my time if not spend it with you." Tim doesn't phrase it as a question, and Raylan only raises his eyebrows as a response. 

  

\-- 

  

"So who exactly is Mark Scraponi?" Raylan asks after they've been in the car for fifteen minutes, talking about nothing. 

"Scarponi. He's a friend." Tim says, curling the thumb of his left hand against his palm, the only nervous habit he ever allowed himself. He doesn't want to have this conversation, doesn't really ever want to have _any_ personal conversation. 

"Didn't know you had those." Raylan says, and _that_ almost sounds like a question. 

"I don't. I just have Scarponi." Tim decides to be honest, even though he especially doesn't want to talk about Mark. He doesn't talk about Mark because Mark is _his_ , and he's nobody's business. 

"Army buddy, I'm assuming?" Raylan asks, glancing down at Tim's hand, because of fucking course he would notice Tim squeezing his thumb. 

"He was my spotter during my last two tours in Afghanistan." Tim makes himself let go of his thumb, bringing it up to his face, pretending to inspect a hangnail that was never there. 

"How many did you do?" Raylan asks like he's actually _interested_ , and that in itself sets Tim on edge. He doesn't need Raylan interested in anything about him. 

"Four there, three in Iraq. And before you ask, five out of those were as a sniper." Tim doesn't want to give Raylan the power of asking the questions he knew were coming, so he decided to just let the man think Tim wanted to tell him this shit. He's not telling the whole truth, anyway. That first time he'd been the acting sniper for only a week, but since that had been the worst week in Tim's life, he doesn't feel like expanding on the subject. 

"You only had two combat deployments before becoming a sniper? You must have been damn good." Raylan asks, using his _I-think-you're-not-telling-me-something_ voice, and that pisses Tim off. 

"I was." Tim says through his teeth, and only to change the subject back to something he wanted to discuss only slightly less he adds, "So was Scarponi. We were both pretty young." 

"He retired too?" Raylan keeps his eyes on the road, but Tim feels like he's burning under the attention Raylan is giving him. 

"We got blown up together." Tim is honest again, because at this point he knows lying won't shut Raylan up. It never does. 

"I didn't know you got hurt." Raylan says, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. It's almost like the idea of Tim being hurt pisses him off. Maybe it does, Tim is well aware of the protection a soldier feels for his comrades, and how it extends to the Marshal service. 

"I didn't, really. Did you?" Tim asks, trying to remember if he saw any scars when Raylan had his shirt off, but all he can remember is a tapered waist. Mostly he asks so that Raylan won't ask for him to elaborate on Mark. 

"What?" Raylan glances at Tim again, his eyebrows knitted together. That little word is all it takes for Tim. The conversation is shifted off him, and he relaxes. Any annoyance he had with Raylan evaporates like it had never been there to begin with. 

"The Marines. You get hurt, or did you go UA? You strike me as the type to go UA." Tim only half jokes, because it really would fit Raylan. 

"Neither, I did my three years, all in country, and I got out. Timing was damn lucky, got my first tour orders right as they started shipping back from the Gulf. I never saw war." Raylan says, and to Tim he almost sounds glad about it. 

"Fuck, I was seven years old when you were joining the Marines." Tim smiles, and Raylan returns it. "But it sounds like not much has changed for you then, you were a lucky boy staying stateside." 

"Well, they did give me a bigger gun in the Marines." Raylan's smile gets wider. 

"How stupid of them." Tim laughs through his nose, and Raylan flips him off. 

  

\-- 

  

Lyman Berger's niece is giving Tim a headache. She's taller than Tim, god damn it, and seems to be none to happy to see them. 

"I ain't telling you no good pussies shit!" she screams, refusing to lower her shotgun even after Raylan tells her to for what has to be the tenth time. She's smart enough that she's pointing it off into the middle distance, not actually at them. Tim would lose his job if he shot her like this, and Raylan would probably get yelled at if he did the same. 

"You're not doing your uncle any favors right now." Raylan says, resting his hand on his sidearm in a way that's meant to seem casual. It might have worked if Tim wasn't already pointing his own gun at the woman. 

"I don't give a shit, I just want you assholes off my property. Go bug somebody else about Uncle Ly because I ain't sayin' shit!" she screams again, and the shotgun twitches a fraction towards Tim. He shifts his shoulder, aiming for her head instead of her center, and let's his finger curl more firmly around the trigger. A part of him really wants to shoot her, and a distressingly smaller sized part hopes he doesn't have to, mostly because of the way Art will look at him if he does. She doesn't move the shotgun any more though, keeps it aiming way to Tim's right, but Tim can tell she noticed the change in his stance, because she turns her eyes to him, and they look a little frightened. 

"Fine. We'll be going then." Raylan actually turns his back to her as he walks to the car, so Tim steps to his left so he's covering the idiot, and backs up after him. Berger's niece watches them go, and it's only when Raylan's door clicks open that she drops her gun and heads back up the porch. 

"I really need to stop following you places. It's bad for my health." Tim says, holstering his gun and giving Raylan a dirty look as he rounds the car. 

"But it's fun." Raylan smiles. 

  

WEDNESDAY 

  

Tim's phone rings at 0346, and he knows that this time, it's not Raylan. 

"What's wrong?" Tim asks, already swinging himself out of bed, reaching out for the drawer he keeps his jeans in before Mark even responds. 

"I'm in so much pain Guts, it hurts so fucking much." Mark whispers, and Tim can hear him sobbing. 

"Where’s your Tramadol? You got a refill last week." Tim growls, already knowing the answer, that Mark took them all at once. Tim tucks his phone against his shoulder so he can tug his jeans over his ass, not even bothering to straighten out his boxers when they crumple up around his thighs. 

"It hurts!" Mark yells in response. "It's killing me, Guts." 

"You're not going to die, Scarponi, I promise you." Tim's hands don't tremble, but they move a bit slow as he digs around for a tank top. The sounds of Mark whimpering in pain get to him pretty bad, get to him like nothing else ever has. 

"I can't take it, Gutterson." Mark sobs, and Tim can't stand the sound of his name in Mark's mouth, not at a time like this. Mark never says his name, just like Tim never calls him _Mark_. They just _don't_. Nobody he served with ever called him by his real name, it was always Guts, the nickname he'd been given during his first tour in Iraq. Wish Wash had given everybody nicknames, probably would have given Mark a damn good one if he hadn't died before they could meet. Tim cuts his thoughts off abruptly, not letting himself think of Wish Wash, not at a time like this. 

"I'm on my way, just try and relax." Tim forgets the shirt, knows Mark isn't going to give a shit, and heads for the door. Chilipepper tries to follow him, meowing loudly up at him as he pulls his keys off the hook. Tim sometimes wonders how much of the war Chili remembers, if he has little kitty nightmares about being trapped under the rubble, or later tucked under a layer of body armor in the scorching sun. Tim had tried to find out whether or not cats can have PTSD, but nobody seemed to know for sure. All Tim knows is that when he freaks out, even a little, Chili seems to want to help. Every time he has a nightmare, he wakes up to find Chili curled around his hip, purring loudly and trying to comfort him. Times like this though, when Tim is upset and Chili can't figure out why, all the cat can think to do is yell at him. 

"I can't breathe." Mark sounds far away, and Tim can tell he put the phone down without putting it on speaker first. 

"Fucking asshole." Tim says, knowing Mark can't hear him. He glances back at Chilipepper as he steps through the front door, and the cat is sitting dutifully by Tim's coat rack, as if trying to inform him that he forgot a jacket. "Keep an eye on the place." he tells Chili before shutting the door and sprinting down the drive. 

"Please give me something." Mark says, his voice clear again. 

"I'm on my way, I'll bring you something." Tim says, slamming the door to his SUV harder than necessary, thumbing his phone to speaker before dropping it into the cup holder. He backs out of the driveway too quickly, nearly taking out his own mailbox in the process. 

"Guts, please." Mark whines again, and Tim can feel his heart hammering against his chest like it wants to escape. They've been here before, too many times for Tim to count. Back during the war it had always been Mark keeping Tim sane, keeping him safe. Mark lying prone next to him, making up stories about the target, talking at Tim, filling up the empty spaces in Tim's mind. There isn't a much closer relationship than the one between a sniper and his spotter when they're out in the mountains alone, and Mark had always just been so fucking _solid_ for Tim. Now they'd been home for just shy of four measly years and Mark had slipped so far, lost the part of him that had been strong, that the man he'd been back then was long gone. So here Tim was, giving Mark as much as needed, as much as he asked for. It was probably too much, probably more than Tim actually had, but he couldn't let Mark down. 

"Talk to me Scarponi, tell me what you're feeling." Tim doesn't listen to Mark's response, just hears the broken sounds, the sobbing. He focuses on driving, on getting to Mark's apartment as quick as possible. He wishes the Marshal service got sirens, so he didn't have to slow at the corners, worried about cops on the other side.  Mark keeps talking the whole time, even as Tim is running up the stairs to his apartment and knocking on the door. 

"Is that you?" Mark whispers, and Tim only hears it through the phone. 

"Yes, open the damn door." The line goes dead, and Tim feels the panic threaten to creep in during the seconds it takes for Mark to open the door for him. As soon as the handle clicks, Tim pushes it open, throwing Mark backwards, and forcing the door into the wall with a bang. 

"What the fuck, Guts!" Mark screams, and Tim steps up to him where he'd fallen onto his ass, kicking the door shut as he goes. 

"Get up, get the fuck up. I'm either taking you to a clinic or I'm kicking your ass into next week, choice is yours." Tim growls, and Mark obviously knows the threat is real. Knows because Tim always gives him that choice, and Mark had tried to call his bluff once. He'd told Tim to go ahead and kick his ass if he wanted, and Tim had. He'd still ended up in the hospital, only it had been for a broken face before it was for drugs. 

"I don't need a clinic!" Mark shouts, scrambling to his feet. Tim has to put out a hand to help him when his bad leg refuses to get under him, but Mark just keeps yelling at him through it. "I need the god damn pain to go away!" 

"Then take your meds the way you’re supposed to and wait for your next surgery like a grown fucking man!" Tim yells, but softens it by resting the hand not still holding Mark's own firmly against the man's chest. 

"They don't work, they're too weak." Mark whispers, tipping forward so Tim is forced to catch him. 

"You have to push through it." Tim wraps his arms around Mark's waist, both holding him up and just holding him. Mark rests his forehead on Tim's shoulder and starts to sob again. "You're strong enough, I know you are. They're gonna fix that leg up soon, and you won't be in pain anymore." 

"Don't take me away." Mark cries against Tim's bare shoulder, and Tim can feel tears and drool dripping down his chest. He doesn't care, it's not the worst of Mark's bodily fluids he's had on him. 

"Fine. We'll stay here, just this once." Tim soothes, pulling Mark tighter against his chest. 

"I'm scared." Mark chokes out through a sob. 

"I know." 

Tim spends the rest of the morning sitting on the edge of Mark's bed, running his fingers through the man's hair, whispering gently to him. By the time his phone buzzes in his pocket, his alarm signaling it's time for him to get ready for work, Mark has only just fallen into a fitful sleep. Tim is tempted to stay by his side, ditch work and make sure that Mark is okay when he wakes up later. In the end he just hits the snooze button twice before getting up and helping himself to Mark's shower and clothes. He knows Mark's shirts are too big for him, knows that he'll get at least one look for showing up in a yellow plaid flannel two sizes too big, but he doesn't have time to go home and change. He leans down to press his forehead against Mark's temple before he goes. He doesn't kiss the side of his head, but he almost wants to. 

  

\-- 

  

"You look like shit." Raylan says as Tim passes his desk. 

"Always the charmer, Raylan." Tim wonders if Raylan knows the difference between his usual service weapon, and the one he keeps in his vehicle as back up. His Glock 27 is still sitting on his dresser back home, and the 23 strapped to his hip almost seems to be mocking him. Tim is never more than a dicks length from a gun, and the fact that he ran out of the house without grabbing one of the three he keeps in his room (but not the Baby Eagle under his pillow, that one he never moves) feels almost embarrassing. 

"You don't even have gel in your hair. I'd think you got laid but you're not glowin'." Raylan smirks, and Tim scowls. 

"You're late." Art barks from his office door, and Tim doesn't have to check his watch to know he is, but only by three minutes. 

"I had a long night." Tim says through a yawn, and makes a vague gesture towards his face, like it holds the answer. The bags under his eyes and un-styled hair are something his co-workers aren't used to seeing, as he usually takes extra care in putting himself together in the morning. 

"Just get your ass in here, you too Raylan. We got a line on Berger I want you to check out." Art tells them. Raylan hops out of his chair like it's burning him, falling in step behind Tim. 

"I've never seen you in anything so ugly." Raylan reaches out to tug on the shirtsleeve that, if Tim didn't have rolled up, would have been way too long. 

"I borrowed it from your daddy." Tim says back, not even in the mood to make a proper joke. 

"Oh good, he needs the company of other assholes. Keeps him young." Raylan sounds amused, but Tim can tell the insult is genuine. 

"Yeah, we have a lot in common, me and good ole' Arlo." Tim cracks, and Raylan just smirks at him. Tim steps into Art's office, and resigns himself to a long hard day of work.


	2. Hey Timmy, you're so fine!

THURSDAY 

  

"So when _was_ the last time you got dicked?" Mark asks around a mouth full of burrito. Tim can't help but stare as a clump of rice falls down Mark's chin, doomed to the ground. 

"I told you when it happened, gave you all the details you didn't really want." Tim says, his mouth equally full of his own food. Hey, it was gross when Mark did it, but Tim made it cute, he was sure. 

"What? That MP from like a year ago?" Mark practically shouts, and Tim scowls at him, giving the other people crowded around the little Roach-Coach a glance, but none of them were paying attention to the two men sharing a bucket load of burritos at the edge of the park. "You gotta get your ass in the game, Guts. Literally.'" 

"Scarponi, shut the hell up." Tim tries to sound harsh, but Mark's stupid joke actually makes him smile a bit. Mark might have a point, anyway. It has been a long time, long enough that Tim has taken to ogling his co-worker, which is all kinds of bad and distracting. He knew if he wasn't on the edge of sexual frustration with only his hand and the various sex-toys Mark had given him as gag-gifts over the years, Tim wouldn't even look at Raylan Givens. 

"You should call up the MP, get laid again. I remember you telling me how good he was. What was it, like, ten inches?" Mark gestures towards Tim's lap. Since Tim is straddling the little picnic bench next to Mark, it's obvious that he's indicating to his dick. 

"I'm a healthy eight with a little change, actually." Tim tells Mark, earning himself a pinched look. 

"I didn't even know that I didn't want to know that." Mark says, busying himself with his food while giving Tim's crotch a suspicious look. 

"You've seen the damn thing enough times." Tim spreads his legs a little further, putting himself more on display. 

"Yeah, soft, thank god. Everybody looks the same soft. And it ain't like I was sizing you up anyhow." Mark lets his gaze linger on Tim's lap for a second more before snapping his eyes back up to his face. "But you know damn well I meant What's-His-Name. You said he was hung like a camel." 

"His name was Sykes, and yes he was." Tim sighs like he's recalling a fond memory, but he mostly just remembers soft skin and Sykes' mantra of 'god damn you're pretty' before an eight out of ten orgasm. Not bad, not the best, not worth going back for fifths. The first four times had been great, but Sykes had been enamored with him, and Tim couldn't let that continue. It wasn't easy to meet men in Kentucky, but he hadn't even had to think twice about hitting on Sykes, not with the way the man had smiled at him, had watched Tim's tongue when he'd licked his lips. He'd had his eyes on Tim from the moment he walked up to the VFW, had probably turned and looked at his ass when he walked through the door. He'd given the illusion of only being impressed with Tim's service, but Tim could see the way he wanted to jump his bones from a mile away. 

"And since you are an untrusting bastard, I know you stole one of his business cards and put it in your little black book for future reference." Mark says as he's shoving the last of his burrito into his mouth. Tim makes a face like he's offended at the implication that he has a little black book, even though he remembers vividly the day Mark had found it. Mark had laughed himself to tears as Tim tried to tell him it was only for security purposes. It was the truth, anyway. He didn't want people to find out about him because some guy he was screwing spouted their mouth. He kept track of who he hooked up with because it made him feel safer. So he had business cards tucked into the pages of a journal. Sykes card was the third, the last one in there. 

"I ain't calling him." Tim says, standing up and putting out his elbow for Mark to use as leverage. Mark is bigger than him by a bit, but Tim has no problem taking the man's weight as he stands. Tim waits patiently, watching as Mark pulls at his right leg with his hand to get it into the proper position under him. 

"You should, you really should. You turn into such a cunt when you're not getting any." Mark laughs, and Tim smacks him on the back of his head. 

"Go get the fuck in the car, Scarponi. Some of us have jobs to get back to, I can't be dragging your lily ass around all day." Tim hovers his hand behind Mark's back as they walk, keeping an eye on the man's bad leg, ready to catch him if he trips. Mark doesn't ever trip while he's sober, and Tim trusts that he is. He trusts Mark not to lie to him, but more than that he trusts the clear eyes, steady hands, and smooth speech Mark brought with him when Tim picked him up for lunch. Mark hadn't been in the best shape when Tim had checked on him last night, so he'd wanted to make sure they got to spend some quality time together today, help Mark keep in a good place for a bit. 

"My ass is pretty damn sweet, ain't it? Not all hairy like yours. Do guys really like that shit? Maybe that's why you're not getting laid. Gotta get your asshole waxed like those California gays." Mark can't hold back his laughter, letting it come up from his belly. Tim just shakes his head, letting himself revel in Mark's amusement. He does glance back over his shoulder though, to make sure nobody has overheard what Mark said. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim can't really do anything but stare. He has no idea how something like this is even real, how it could be actually happening in this office, in a room full of Deputy Marshals. That this exchange is taking place a foot from Tim's desk, where he's just sat smiling at the men as he watches them get up in each other's space. He really shouldn't be surprised, though, because this is just Raylan Givens’ life, and Tim should learn to accept that nothing will ever make sense in it. Tim just makes sure to have his forearm resting against the butt of his gun, hoping he gets a reason to use it. 

"You promised me something." Boyd is all teeth as he smiles, still reminds Tim of a cartoon. 

"Ain't my fault you were fool enough to think it'd actually happen." Raylan's accent has a habit of getting thicker when he's around Boyd, Tim kind of likes it. He kind of likes this whole situation; likes watching Raylan pretending that he's not tense, likes feeling the energy radiating off the two men, hell he even likes the ass backwards way Boyd Crowder always sounds like he's about to have some spirit take over his body and spout the good word in your face. It's entertaining. And if he finds the way Raylan's back is flexed under his shirt is also a little sexy, well, sue him. 

"Well now, Raylan, you can't expect me to just give up on it that easily. I have a debt owed to me, and I do intend on collecting." Boyd is still smiling, and it's more threatening than anything else about him. Tim would bet his rent money that Boyd was a biter in kindergarten, probably took a few good chunks out of people nowadays too, if the mood struck. 

"Boyd," Raylan has a special tone of voice for Boyd, one Tim thinks of as his _Boy_ _d_ _-_ _Crowder_ _-is-my-BFF_ voice. It's a direct mixture of his _I'm-going-to-kill-you_ voice and his _I'm-flirting-with-you_ voice. Tim finds it endlessly amusing. 

"Raylan." Boyd's smile broadens. 

"Get out of here before I shoot you." Raylan reaches up to resettle his hat on his head, a motion Tim is jealous of in it's effortlessness. Tim doesn't look effortless in anything except killing, he knows. Mark told him once that even his hand gestures look forced, like he's only mimicking what he thinks he's supposed to do. 

"I'm gonna be coming back, Raylan. I will settle what needs to be settled." Boyd turns to leave, and his eyes land on Tim for a second. Tim uses that second to blow Boyd a kiss, and lets himself grin wider when Boyd returns it with a wink. Under different circumstances, Tim could really like Boyd. He was just the kind of guy Tim liked to hang around with, except for the minor detail of being a criminal. Hell, he might even be amused with the man despite that, if it wasn't for the way Raylan chased after him like a god damn hound after a bird. 

"You know he means that, right?" Tim asks Raylan when the man drops himself into his desk chair, pulling his hat off and tossing it onto his desk. Tim tries not to track Raylan's fingers as they comb through his hair, but he knows he can't help himself. 

"Unfortunately, I do." Raylan says, swiveling his chair so he's facing Tim through the glass separating them. "Talk to me about Berger." it sounds like an order, and Tim follows it. He has Berger's file memorized by now, anyway. 

"Lyman Berger started out small time when he was still a teenager, around the time I was just a glint in my father's eye. He got sent to juvie a few times, hooked up with Bo Crowder when he was in his twenties. Hey, I could probably walk by then." Tim sees Raylan roll his eyes, but the man doesn't tell him to shut up, so he figures the jokes are welcome enough. "He broke off into his own when Bo went away. Dealing drugs, muscling people, he used to steal and sell cars, did a small stint as an arms man but sucked at it, it would seem. Pretty much all your typical Harlan past times. He did work for Boyd, muscle wise, back when Crowder's Commandos was going strong. No indication the guy is actually a sympathizer though, probably just wanted to stay good with the family. After that his trail goes kind of dry, until last week when he got pulled over with a truck load of stolen weed and killed a trooper." Tim waves his hand towards his computer screen, even though he knows Raylan can see it from where he is, can probably tell that Tim was just playing solitaire. "Of course, I have to say 'allegedly' for legal purposes. He is 'allegedly' a piece of shit who gunned down a cop during a routine stop." 

"Well," Raylan says, real slow. "Let's just hope that he is allegedly the kind of piece of shit who slips up when it's most convenient for us." 

"You mean like before somebody puts a bullet in one of us?" Tim smirks. 

"I was thinking more along the lines of, we get to arrest him before you put one in him." Raylan uses his _I'm-serious-partner_ voice, and Tim has to fight to keep the smirk in place. 

"You never let me have any fun." 

  

\-- 

  

Tim loves stakeouts. Sitting and waiting is his bread and butter, and nothing gets his dick hard like looking through a scope. What he doesn't love, is sitting next to Raylan Givens for hours on end. 

"You don't really think she's just going to walk up to the place?" Raylan asks, gesturing to the building with the ice cream cone he had seemingly produced out of thin air. 

"I think it's our job to sit here and find out." Tim says, adjusting his grip on the scope, eyeing what turned out to be a bird rustling some bushes behind the house. 

"Her and Berger split, what? Eight years ago? You think she even knows anything?" Raylan asks stupid repetitive questions when he's bored, and it's one of the few things Tim hates about the man. 

"I think it's your job to seduce her into telling us." Tim drops the scope, resting it against his cheek. 

"You should try doing the seducing every once in a while." Raylan says it while licking the ice cream, and Tim grimaces at the slurping sound it makes. 

"That's not my strong suit." Tim tells him, keeping his eyes on the house, since Raylan has decided his gaze is better spent on Tim. 

"You've got your appeal." Raylan says, and Tim refuses to pay attention to the way he blood suddenly feels hot under his skin. 

"Well, we all know how you are about blondes, I'm just your type." Tim jokes, throws Raylan a smirk so the man can read it as nothing more. 

"You aren't as leggy as I usually like them, but the backside ain't half bad." Raylan can't have any idea what him saying shit like that does to Tim's insides, and there is no way Tim's gonna let him find out. 

"You got no idea about my legs. Let me tell you, they are grade A, prime beefcake." Tim stares at the front of the house, hoping that Berger's ex-wife is about to pop out of the bushes and give him a reason to dive from the car like he wants to. 

"Well take off your pants, let me see." Raylan is using something Tim almost thinks is his _Boy_ _d_ _-_ _Crowder_ voice, and that makes no sense to him. 

"Deputy Givens you are supposed to be working, not flirting." Tim smiles even though he feels like punching Raylan in the face. Or maybe himself, or maybe Mark for being such a smug asshole and being right about everything all the time. _Fifty percent of R_ _aylan_ _Given_ _s_ _face is hotter than one hundred percent of your everything, Guts_. Yeah, he knows damn well that Raylan Givens' jawline is a thing for the ages. 

"Ain't no reason I can't watch and house and still make you blush like a school boy." Raylan turns away, giving his attention back to his ice cream, and is thankfully quieter for the rest of the day. 

Nobody shows up at the house in the next few hours, and Tim and Raylan agree to call it a night. As Raylan drives back to the courthouse, Tim is left with his increasingly worrisome thoughts. He had first found himself thinking Raylan was attractive only a few weeks ago, but the idea has been with him like a plague since then. It seems like the more he tries not to think about it, the worse it becomes. Tim has never had much of a type, but he imagines if he did, Raylan would fit it pretty well. Despite the fact that Tim hates when a guy is too much taller than him, there isn't much about Raylan to _not_ find attractive. He's rugged, confident, and has a body that indicates he works out more often than Tim would have guessed. He's lean and long, with a pretty face and a voice that Tim has to admit sounded really nice first thing in the morning. It's just the way Raylan is, the man is seductive without trying, sometimes even when Tim got the impression he was trying his best _not_ to be. 

By the time Tim and Raylan part ways in the parking lot, Tim is lost in thoughts of all the things Raylan could have done to his legs if Tim had taken off his pants earlier. For the first time, Tim was willing to agree wholeheartedly with Mark. 

He needs to get laid. 

  

\-- 

  

"I'm going to make pizza from scratch!" Mark sounds excited, like he's never heard of anything better than making pizza from scratch. The volume of his voice makes Chilipepper startle and take off out of the room. Mark looks after him a little sadly as his bushy tail disappears into the hallway. 

"I can't wait." Tim tells him sincerely. He takes one of the grocery bags from Mark's hands, following his friend into the kitchen where he's already spreading his ingredients all over Tim's counter. Tim parks himself on one of the bar-stools at the end of the island, watches Mark as he unpacks everything, setting things down with no sense of order. Tim had always felt like this kitchen was too big for him, too fancy. The whole house was that way, really. Tim didn't need the jacuzzi in the master bathroom, or the formal dining room, or three spare bedrooms. The landlord had tried to make the size a selling point when Tim had first looked at it, but they both knew the only reason Tim was actually there was because there was nobody else who would rent a house where a family of five were tortured and killed by the cartel. 

"I think maybe I could learn how to be, like, a gourmet cook." Mark tells him as he's pulling a package of cheese out of one of the bags. 

"How Italian of you." Tim smiles as Mark shoots him a dirty look. 

"It's supposed to be a good outlet, stress reducer kind of thing. Cooking." Mark says it into the bag, soft enough that Tim almost doesn't hear it. 

"Good." Tim says it just as soft. It _is_ good, anything that Mark even tries makes Tim happy. Just the fact that he wants to try, wants to make an effort to help himself, makes Tim's heart swell. What Tim wants, truly yearns for, is for Mark not to feel like he needs the Oxy. He knows the PTSD will never be any easier for Mark, but without an addiction on top of it, he knows Mark could just be freer, happier. Tim blames the doctor's for giving him an addictive substance to begin with, blames the field hospital for doing more damage to his leg than good. Sometimes he still even blames himself, for getting Mark hurt in the first place. He had ended both of their military careers and ruined Mark's life because he had been stupid. Tim regrets the call he made more than anything, even though he knows Mark doesn't blame him, knows Mark made the choice to save Tim's life knowing it would cost him his leg. It doesn't make it any easier to think if he'd chosen a building just one over, Mark wouldn't have any of this pain. 

"I'm assuming you're still a disgusting man and want these little monstrosities on your half?" Mark holds up a can of anchovies, and Tim let's out a bark of laughter. 

"Oh fuck, Scarponi, you are a wonderful man. Remind me again why I don't just date _you_?" Tim doesn't even remember the last time he had anchovy pizza, is pleased like nothing else that for some reason Mark _does_ remember. 

"I have the misfortune of being straight. But oh, believe me Guts, even if I swung your way I'd still be way too hot for you." Mark gives him bedroom eyes, and Tim rolls his own. 

  

FRIDAY 

  

"You know, Don't Ask Don't Tell doesn't apply to the Marshal service." Mark says, kicking Tim in the side of the thigh once with his good leg, before settling his foot back into Tim's lap. Tim just focuses on working his hands into the flesh of Mark's other leg, pressing the knots out of the muscle while avoiding the pins and screws that rest just under the skin. 

"You'd think so, but you've never heard one of Nelson's faggot jokes." Tim digs his thumb into what seems like a particularly tender spot, and Mark lets out a sound that's both pain and relief. Tim had asked the physical therapist years ago how to massage Mark's leg, and she'd only agreed to teach him because Mark hated being touched and wouldn't let her do her job. Mark had always been a less than tactful guy, but after the war, the only person whose hand he didn't jump away from was Tim's. 

"Isn't Nelson the one everybody thinks is a douchebag? Who cares what Nelson thinks. Next time he says the word faggot, say 'why thank you, yes I am' and punch him in the mouth." Mark scrunches up his nose at the feeling of Tim's fingers pressing at the backside of his knee, a spot that used to be ticklish, but has dulled to 'slightly annoying' over the years. 

"To what end? So Art can look at me differently, so Raylan can avoid getting stuck overnight with me again? So the word can get around and any time I go to talk to a criminal they don't take me seriously because I'm just a some little gay man? There is no point." Tim let's go of Mark's leg, but Mark doesn't move from where he's laying, his feet tucked between Tim's thigh and the arm of his couch. 

"That all sounds better than hiding, to me." Mark says, looking at Tim with an expression that Tim is used to, and hates. It's disappointment, and coming from Mark it's almost an insult. 

"It's not like I have a boyfriend," Tim starts. 

"You don't have one _because_ you're hiding! It's not the other way around." Mark cuts him off. "You liked Sykes, don't even bullshit me. I know that's not the only reason you don't date, I'm not stupid. I know all about _that_. I'm not going to touch all the other problems you have with a ten foot pole, but you pull away, you know you do. Sykes got close and you got scared." 

"Fuck off." Tim groans, letting his head fall back against the couch. He hates it when Mark is right about shit, and he usually is. When Mark has a clear head he's the smartest, most perceptive man that Tim has ever met. It doesn't help that Mark really does know _everything_ about Tim. It can be really fucking annoying. 

"You're gay, Tim. Gay as gay can be, and if those guys give a shit then fuck them. I mean, not really. That would probably just make them hate gays even more and that would be counterproductive." Mark is trying to joke, trying to get Tim to smile. Tim doesn't want it to work. 

"I don't have any reason to come out," Tim says, turning to meet Mark's eyes. 

"That's stupid. There is no reason not to, there is no reason it should even be a thing. You having to hide is bullshit. I thought so back then, and I think so now. DADT can suck your dick." Mark frowns. 

"Why my dick?" Tim chuckles. 

"Well, I mean DADT has gotta come from men right? You'd like it more." Mark reaches out to grab Tim's wrist, turning his watch so he could read it. "And now it's time for you to go get ready for work." Mark sounds put out by the fact, and Tim just nods, giving Mark's leg a gentle pat before standing up. 

"You gonna stay here today?" Tim asks, eyeing Mark where he's laying in just his boxers, looking like he owns Tim's couch. In a way, maybe he does. Mark is here often enough, Tim finds him sitting on the couch most mornings. He sleeps in the room right next to Tim's bedroom usually, but he says he likes the vaulted ceiling the living room more, finds it more comforting. 

"Thinking about it. My landlord is hinting at wanting me gone, but she can't kick me out if I'm not there for her to yell at." Mark tells him. "Now go, catch some bad guys, come out to the handsome cowboy, maybe suck some dick. Who knows what the day holds!" Mark doesn't even try to duck the water bottle Tim chucks at his head, just lets it bounce off his forehead while he laughs. 

  

\-- 

  

Winona is standing by Raylan's desk when Tim arrives to the office. She looks pissed, and Tim tries to remember if he's ever seen any other expression on her face. Tim isn't quite sure how the hell the two of them are still together. He remembers seeing them on their date way back when, and even then it had seemed odd. Of course, at the time he'd been so terrified that Raylan had just caught him trying to hit on a guy that he hadn't even registered that those two were engaged in a secret of their own. He'd thought going that far out of town would make him invisible, thought it would make picking a stranger up at a bar like everyone else did a possibility. Seeing Raylan had startled him so badly that he'd messed the whole thing up in the end. The guy had waved him off, hadn't even given into Tim's obvious search for a kiss at the end of the night. It was sad, really, because he had been a spin coach with the ass to prove it, and Tim had really been looking forward to _that_. 

"Where is Raylan?" Winona asks Tim, and she sounds even angrier than she looks, which seems very impressive to Tim. 

"Seeing as it's only just gone seven, I imagine he's at home sleeping." Tim drops himself into his chair, boots up his computer, and only looks up at Winona when she leans over his desk, putting her hands all over his papers. He's never really had a feeling about her one way or another, but she is being rude, and Tim's hateful nature is tipping her towards the 'dislike' side of things. 

"I just came from his hotel, he wasn't home. His bed didn't even looked slept in. He told me he was with you last night, so where the hell is he?" Winona didn't make any threats, but she might as well have with the way Tim suddenly felt very, very small. 

"Me and Raylan parted ways at nineteen hundred." Tim tells her. "Seven o'clock." he clarifies. "I haven't seen him since." 

"He said he was drinking with you after work." Winona gets a look on her face like worry, and Tim can understand why. 

"What time did you talk to him?" Tim asks, turning to his monitor, pulling up the program that would allow him to access Raylan's lowjack from his computer. 

"Right after nine, he said  he was going to ask you to go get drinks and that he'd see me later. I went to take him breakfast this morning and his hotel room was empty, bed made. I thought maybe he slept at yours or something." Winona speaks in a rush, and Tim works in one as he keys in Raylan's lowjack frequency, tapping his finger on the enter bar an extra three times as he waits for the program to load. Winona rounds his desk, leaning over him to look at his screen. Her hair brushes against his shoulder, and Tim recognizes the scent of her shampoo as the same kind he uses. Sheer Blonde by John Frieda. 

"Well he was lying through his teeth, I went straight home, ate some pizza, passed out watching a documentary about monkeys. Unless Raylan hid out in my rifle bag, he wasn't with us." Tim says, mostly to himself. 

"I don't think he'd fit." Winona says, not taking her eyes off the little symbol on Tim's screen that told them it was loading up Raylan's location. Tim laughs through his nose at the joke, and Winona smiles at his reaction. Maybe he could like her a little bit after all, as long as she kept her manicured paws off his files. Tim glances at the hand she has on the desk, and it's resting over the only picture he has slid under the protective plastic of his desktop. It's a picture of him and Wish Wash, squatting next to a tank. They both had their shirts off, both with a skin tone a few shades darker than their usual, and Tim had been smiling wide despite the blood and dirt caking their boots. Tim had an M24 slung over his shoulder, and Wish Wash was leaning on a mortar. Both of them were scratched and damaged, but neither of them seemed to give a shit. To be honest, Tim can't remember much of the actual day that picture was taken, but he knows it's the last picture anybody ever took of Wish Wash. Winona's fingers were splayed across the Tim in the picture, her red nails covering him up. Her other hand, Tim just now noticed, was resting on his forearm. He wasn't sure exactly when she'd put it there, but now that he noticed it, he was pleasantly surprised to find she wasn't squeezing, wasn't trembling. She was just resting it there, like she was calming Tim as much as herself by the touch. 

"Ten bucks says he's in Harlan." Tim smiles at Winona, deciding right then that, yes, he does like her. 

"I'd take it if I didn't think the same." she says, and then the computer pings, and she groans. "Shit. Guess I should have taken it." 

Raylan's car was sitting, unmoving, in the Lexington courthouse parking lot, right where Tim had last seen it the day before.


	3. Don't tell Boyd, Boyd doesn't know-oh!

SATURDAY 

 

"You know damn well Crowder doesn't have him!" Tim hisses into the phone, wrapping his hand tighter around the plastic than is comfortable. 

"We don't know shit." Rachel replies, using her _I'm-gonna'-be-the-boss-one-day_ voice. Tim hates that voice. 

"For fuck sakes, Rachel, the man's more worried than we are." Tim tells her. He knows that, because when he'd told him Raylan was missing, Boyd had given Tim a look like he was begging for something. It had felt like he was personally asking Tim to make sure Raylan was found and brought back to safety. It had felt uncomfortable, and a tiny bit threatening. Tim almost felt like if something _did_ happen to Raylan, Boyd would take it as a personal offence. 

"Well then he'll be out looking, won't he? All the more reason to sit on him." Rachel doesn't give Tim a chance to protest again. "Stay at Boyd's bar, keep an eye on him, and don't call me unless you either find Raylan or you're dead." she ends the call after that, and Tim swears. 

"I take it you'll be gracing us with your company for a little while longer." Boyd beams as he spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the bar that is entirely empty save for himself and Tim. 

"Rachel thinks you can lead us to Raylan." Tim scowls as he takes the seat Boyd had offered him earlier, ignoring the look of triumph on the man's face. Tim sits with his legs thrown out in front of him, his ankles crossed. He leans down as far in his chair as he can while still keeping himself steady, and makes himself give off the illusion of casualness. He knows Boyd knows better though, knows they can both feel how tense the other is, despite them both pretending otherwise. 

"Believe me, if I could, I'd be more than happy to assist." Boyd's smile is one of those things Tim finds he wants to see bloody. It's not out of any urge to do violence to Boyd, it's just that it'd look _so_ fitting. 

"You say that like you don't have Boy Band out looking for him right now." Tim eyes the drink resting by Boyd's elbow, wishing for a moment that he had one of his own. 

"I'm going to assume that you're talking about Jimmy, and I can assure you that I have no idea what you mean." Boyd takes a sip of his drink, looking Tim in the eye as he does. It should be a simple enough thing to most people, looking a man in the eye. Tim knows that that's not the case though, knows that Boyd Crowder means something by it. 

"Anybody ever tell you, you look like a cartoon cactus?" Tim asks, eyeing Boyd's hair, where it's sitting even more unruly than usual on top of his head. Tim thinks he'd probably been running his hands through it when Tim had stepped outside earlier. He'd been on his way to leave with the other officers when Rachel had called, told him to go back inside. 

"I can't say that I've heard that one before. I'm assuming you're referencing my prickly disposition?" Boyd stands and heads for the bar. Tim doesn't bother watching him go, he knows Boyd isn't going to hurt him. One thing Raylan can never seem to admit about his old friend, is that he's about as smart as they come. He'd never do something truly stupid, and intelligence is something Tim can always trust. 

"Nope." Tim doesn't elaborate, just asks, "You got any board games?" 

Two hours later Tim finds himself losing miserably in a game of scrabble, and he doesn't even know half the words Boyd has played. It's almost funny to him how they're both taking the game rather seriously. It's not a competitive vibe though, they aren't even keeping score. They both just want to impress each other it seems, and Tim actually finds himself having the tiniest amount of fun despite everything. Tim lays out the final letter of "GRAVE" and gives Boyd a winning smile. Boyd returns it, before using Tim's "V" to spell out "VULVA" with one hand, while taking a sip of his drink with the other. Boyd has refilled his glass three times since they've been here, but hasn't offered Tim a drink once. Tim is grateful he hasn't, because he might not say no to a beer. Tim is just about to pick up one of his letter tiles when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

 **Mark** **Scarponi [1545]:** i need u 

 **Outgoing [1545]:** I'm working. Whats wrong? 

 **Mark** **Scarponi [1546]:** dyin 

 **Outgoing [1546]:** Where are you? What are you doing? 

 **Mark** **Scarponi [1547]:** hurts 

"Is it Raylan?" Boyd asks when Tim let's out a curse under his breath. 

"No, it's personal." Tim looks up at Boyd, sees the worry in the man's eyes. "Somebody will find Raylan. Whether it be my guys or Boy Band, we'll get him." Tim knows it's a strange thing for him to be actually offering Boyd Crowder of all people comfort right now, but his attention is mostly wandering anyway. 

 **Outgoing [1547]:** I need you to tell me what you're doing and where you are. 

 **Mark** **Scarponi [1547]:** ur room 

Tim frowns at that. He'd told Mark last night that he might not be home for a while, that he'd be busy looking for a missing deputy. He'd taken Mark back to his apartment after making sure he ate some dinner, and hadn't seen him since. Tim has no idea how Mark got all the way to his house without Tim to give him a ride. 

 **Outgoing [1548]:** Is Chilipepper with you? Tell him how you feel. He'll help until I can get there. 

 **Mark** **Scarponi [1548]:** chili is scard i need u 

"You look mighty troubled, Deputy." Boyd tells him as he steals Tim's turn, plays the word "AMELIORATE" off his own "VULVA." 

"You don't get to talk to me about this." Tim barks, glares pointedly at Boyd's hand when he goes to steal another turn. 

"I imagine you're already worried enough about the man you're sleeping with being missing, you might as well let whatever else is going on in your life lie for the moment." Boyd pulls his hand back across the table, but Tim has a bizarre feeling like he'd just used it to slap him in the face. 

"What?" Tim's voice comes out slower than he would like, and he suddenly doesn't have the brain power to look down at his phone when it buzzes in his hand again. 

"I simply mean that a man can only worry about so much at a time." Boyd is all teeth again, and Tim has never found the man to be truly scary until right now. 

"What makes you think I'm sleeping with Raylan?" Tim doesn't mean to ask that, but his mouth doesn't seem to care. He glances back down at his phone so he doesn't have to look at Boyd's face. 

 **Mark** **Scarponi [1549]:** pls com home 

"Your eyes have a tendency to linger in places they ought not linger, for one thing." Boyd laughs a little, like he's about to tell a good joke. "And being worried about a coworker is something, but being so worked up about it that you put your flack vest on inside out and yell at your superiors in front of a suspect, that's a whole different thing, boy." 

"Like you noticed, I have a lot to worry about." Tim's voice sounds choked in his own ears, and he knows Boyd will know he's full of shit. He has a bizarre few seconds where he wonders if Boyd is psychic. It would explain a hell of a lot. 

 **Outgoing [1549]:** Get into my bed, cover your head with the blanket. Try to stay quiet and Chilipepper will come lay with you. I'll come home to you as soon as I can. 

"You clearly do, Deputy, but I've been told too much sex can cloud a person's judgement. Though I myself have been having quite a lot of it lately and am yet to find myself impaired in any fashion." Boyd laughs again, finishes his drink, gets up to get another. 

"Well congratulations." Tim says dryly. "I'm not sleeping with Raylan." 

 **Mark** **Scarponi [1550]:** now pls ur bed smells lik u chili is cryin 2 we need u 

"That's too bad." Boyd says from behind Tim, where he's standing at the bar. It must be because Tim is so distracted by Mark that it takes so long for what Boyd said to really sink in, but once it does, Tim feels his eyes go wide. He's glad Boyd is behind him, because he knows he probably looks like a gaping fool. Boyd hadn't simply implied that Tim was attracted to Raylan, but that they were sleeping together. He didn't just think Tim was gay, didn't just think Tim wanted Raylan. Boyd Crowder, arguably Raylan' oldest friend in the world, had sat there and believed Raylan Givens was sleeping with Tim. Boyd thought they were _sleeping together_. Tim is still stuck on this thought when the bar door flew open and Boy Band came crashing through. 

"Boyd, he didn't have him." Boy Band shouts, and Tim can practically feel Boyd's anger pulse from behind him. Tim gives himself a mental shake, secretly thanks Boy Band for pulling him from that train of thought, and makes himself look like a Deputy Marshal and not a confused idiot. 

"I love it when I'm right." Tim smiles, raising an eyebrow at Boy Band. 

"Shit." Boy Band says under his breath. "Boyd, is everything okay?" he asks, eyes moving between the scrabble board and Tim's badge. As Boyd pointed out, Tim had thrown on his vest with the Marshal symbol facing inwards, too distracted this morning by the whole _R_ _aylan_ _Given_ _s_ _has been missing for hours_ thing. 

"Everything is alright. Me and the fine Deputy were just getting to know each other, is all." Boyd comes back to the table, drops a glass of something that looks like lemonade next to Tim's side of the board. "And I believe it's your turn, Deputy." 

"Yeah, give me a sec." Tim picks up the drink, trusting Boyd's intelligence yet again, knowing the man wouldn't try to poison him. It turns out to be limeade, and Tim takes a grateful sip. 

 **Outgoing [1551]:** I promise I will be there as soon as I can. Trust me. 

 **Mark** **Scarponi [1551]:** always trust u lov u so mch 

 **Outgoing [1551]:** I love you, too. Sit tight for me, I'll be right there. 

 **Mark** **Scarponi [1552]:** lov u lov u lov ur guts 

Tim chuckles at the old joke before setting his phone down on the table. He trusts Mark to be okay for a little while, but he still figures he should keep it close. He plays the word "HIGH" off of the "GAS" he'd played earlier, clucks his tongue happily, gives Boyd a brief raise of his eyebrows before settling back into his chair. Boy Band has walked over and is lowering himself into the seat to Boyd's right, but keeps his body angled towards Tim. 

"Either of you guys want to tell me where exactly you thought Raylan was? Just so we can cross it off our list?" Tim directs the question at Boyd, who is pursing his lips in thought as he looks over his letter tiles. 

"None of your," Boy Band starts, but Boyd cuts him off. 

"Wynn Duffy was my first guess." Boyd tells Tim, and Boy Band has the decency to look sheepish. Tim taps his phone awake, shoots that information off in a text to Rachel. He doesn't think Duffy was even something they had considered yet. 

"You sent Boy Band after Wynn Duffy alone? He must be either deceptively good or incredibly expendable." Tim says, throws Boy Band a wink because the kid is red-faced now and it's precious. 

"Boy Band?" Boy Band practically shouts. 

"He's both exceptionally good and stupendously in-expendable to me." Boyd tells Tim. "And don't take offence to the name. If an Army man gives you a nickname, it's a compliment." he tells Boy Band. Tim knows that's true to a point, but he honestly just can't remember the kid's actual name. First time he'd seen the kid standing at Boyd's back he'd thought _he looks like he should be in a_ _boyband_ and the name had stuck in his mind. 

"What did they call you?" Tim asks Boyd, takes another sip of the limeade, lets himself enjoy the taste. 

"They called me Bluegrass. It was hardly original, but I appreciated it at the time. How about you, Deputy?" Boyd asks, but Tim's phone buzzes against the table before he can answer. 

 **Rachel Brooks [1559]:** He give you anything else? 

 **Outgoing [1600]:** You mean other than a pretty spectacular blow job? 

 **Rachel Brooks [1600]:** You disgust me. 

 **Outgoing [1600]:** Jealous? 

 **Rachel Brooks [1601]:** Just try and get some more information. And if you come back with your "I just got laid" glow on your face I'm kicking you in the head. 

 **Outgoing [1601]:** Roger that. 

"They find him?" Boyd asks, and Tim wishes he knew the man well enough to know his different tones of voice. All he knows is his two different greetings for Raylan. If he's happy to see the man, it'll be 'Well, Raylan Givens!' and if he's unhappy to see him it'll be 'God damn, Raylan!' 

"Not as such. Unfortunately since Boy Band here proved to actually have the tiniest bit of useful information, you're still stuck with me." Tim tells him. 

"I hate to admit that you aren't all that bad of company, Deputy." Boyd smiles and finally places a word on the board. "STICKLER." 

"Guts." Tim says, using Boyd's "K" to write "KICK." 

"I'm sorry?" Boyd leans forward in his seat, getting closer, and Tim realizes he'd mumbled. 

"You asked me what they called me. They called me Guts." Tim says. 

"Well now, Guts. I guess we better settle in for a long night. Boy Band, why don't you go and put on some music." Boyd laughs at the offended look on the kids' face. 

Tim was right. Under the right circumstances, he really fucking liked Boyd Crowder. 

  

\-- 

  

Mark is still curled up in Tim's bed when he gets home. Tim drops his service weapon into it's spot on the dresser, strips off his jeans, and climbs under the sheets. Mark startles when Tim first settles behind him, but Tim shushes him, tells him it's okay, and wraps an arm around Mark's waist. It's not hot in the house, but Mark is sweating through his shirt. Tim can feel him trembling under his hand, so he pulls him closer. Mark's right leg is ramrod straight, but he has his left knee pulled up to his chest, holding himself in as close to the fetal position as he can get. When Tim presses up against his back, Mark reaches down and laces his fingers through Tim's, pulling his arm even further around his chest. Tim is tired, wants nothing more than to fall asleep, but he knows he can't let himself until Mark does first. Tim feels like he hasn't slept in a few days, and he really wishes Mark's body hadn't picked tonight to start this shit up. 

"Are you okay?" Mark asks him, and Tim can't help but let out a huff of laughter, pressing his nose up against the back of Mark's neck. 

"Yeah, yeah. I only have a few hours though, I have to go back out to look for Deputy Givens soon." Tim whispers into Mark's skin. Tim is a very smell oriented guy. Scents hold strong memories for him, and he has a lot of scents that he holds particularly dear to his heart. His top four are; the cherry tobacco Wish Wash used to roll his own cigarettes with, sweet chili paste, wet sand, and the way Mark's skin smells when they are pressed close like this. 

"Raylan Givens, the hot cowboy." Mark tries to chuckle, but he jumps when Chilipepper climbs onto the bed, shoving his furry little head under the covers to get to them. 

"Yeah. Want to hear something funny, babe?" Tim asks. He knows it's a bad night for both of them when he calls Mark that. It's a way for Tim to let Mark know that he needs him just as much as Mark needs Tim. It means they both need comfort, and are both finding it in each other. Tim knows if Mark hadn't needed him tonight, if Tim had come home to an empty bed, he'd have broken down. He'd have cried, screamed, punched the walls in his frustration at Raylan being gone, at letting Boyd see so far under his defenses. 

"Always want to hear your stories." Mark laughs gently as Chilipepper starts licking at their hands where they're folded together against Mark's chest. 

"I had to sit with this guy today. He's an old friend of Raylan's, we thought he might know where he was." Tim reaches his free hand under Mark's neck to pet Chilipepper. The cat starts purring, his voice adding a soundtrack as Tim continues. "He had somehow gotten the impression that me and Raylan were sleeping together. Scared the hell out of me, throwing out a comment about me being gay so casually like that. When I got the call to go home, I pulled him in under the guise of giving him a hug, whispered in his ear. I asked him if he thought I was queer, and he said 'son, I've known you were since the first time I laid eyes on you' like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I got real scared then, but he just hugged me harder for a second and told me 'don't worry, I know what it must be like and I ain't gonna say shit to anybody because it ain't anybodies business.' How about that?" 

"I think I like this guy." Mark says, and Tim smiles against the back of his neck. "And hey, you said he was an old friend of the cowboy's?" 

"They dug coal together." Tim laughs, even though he knows Mark won't get the joke. 

"Well then it's gotta mean something that he thought Raylan was dicking you, right?" Mark turns a little, and Tim's nose brushes against his ear. 

"Please go back to having a panic attack, I prefer you when you can't think too hard." Tim groans, headbutting Mark in the side of the skull. 

"You just hate it when I have a good point." Mark sounds smug, but he doesn't push anything. He just squirms a bit, presses back against Tim more firmly, and settles down to go back to sleep. Tim hooks his ankle around Mark's bad leg, taking care not to put any pressure on the spots he knows are sensitive. 

Tim is truly grateful that Mark is here with him tonight, because he knows he's going to have nightmares. He'll dream about Raylan never being found, about Boyd laughing in his face and calling him a faggot. He'll have nightmares about finding Raylan just in time to watch him get killed, and they'll all meld into nightmarish memories of watching Wish Wash get blown in two, the one dream that repeats itself in his head constantly. Tim will probably make the night hell for Mark, but he knows that in a few hours, when they wake up trembling in each other's arms, they'll both just be glad to have each other there. 

  

SUNDAY 

  

Tim had told himself a thousand times not to think about it. Told himself Boyd was an asshole, told himself Mark was reading too much into things. Told himself a lot of things, but no matter what he did his thoughts circled around to the fact that _Boy_ _d_ _Crowder_ _thought he was sleeping with R_ _aylan_ _Given_ _s_. Boyd apparently knew Tim was gay, had known for a while, and obviously didn't care. So while that in itself caused Tim panic, it made Boyd's comment make half-sense. Sure, Boyd could easily come to the conclusion that Tim wanted to sleep with Raylan, but how was it that Boyd's mind took that extra step? Why the fuck did Boyd think Raylan and Tim were a thing? Think they they were, to use Mark's words, dicking each other? It didn't make sense. It made so little sense, that when Rachel said she wanted somebody to go talk to Boyd before heading out to question some woman Raylan knew, Tim actually volunteered himself. It's just bad luck that when he shows up to the bar, the only one there is Boy Band. 

"You guys have only owned this bar for what, a week? Not doing very good." Tim leans further into Boy Band's space than he needs to, but it's mostly because they're the same height and Tim likes not being shorter than somebody for once. 

"It's not even noon yet, asshole. You here for another round of scrabble?" Boy Band asks, not taking his attention from the table he's wiping down. Tim figures it was one Boyd had used, since he didn't see evidence of any actual customers. 

"Actually just passing through on my way to talk to a lovely young woman about Raylan's whereabouts. Unless you have some news for me?" Tim slides onto a barstool, resting his forearm against the butt of his gun. 

"I don't. Wait for Boyd to come back from looking for him and maybe he might." Boy Band tells him, and Tim knows he doesn't make any outward indication, but he feels like all the muscles in his body tense up at once. He finds himself anxious, excited, and terrified all at the same time. 

"Give me Boyd's number." Tim barks, spits it the way a drill sergeant would. "Give me his god damn number, Boy Band!" Tim snaps his fingers when the kid hesitates. 

"My name in Jimmy, first of all. And if you actually think I'm going to give Boyd's number to anybody, you're dumber than you look." Boy Band tells him. 

"I happen to know that I look ten kinds of fuckable and eight kinds of deadly, so give me his number right now, Boy Band." Tim's fingers twitch where they're dangling by his gun, but he knows shooting Boy Band in the face won't get him Boyd's number. 

"You actually look a little bit like an angry puppy." Boy Band says, but then he rattles off Boyd's number. "Only because I know he likes you, for whatever reason." he adds, but Tim ignores him, turns his attention from the kid and focuses on his phone. 

 **Outgoing [0918]:** You know where Raylan is? 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[0918]:** While it's lovely to hear from you, Guts, I must ask where you got my number? 

Tim knows what Boyd is actually asking. He's asking if he's right in assuming that it's Tim who is texting him. Boyd is a smart motherfucker, Tim will always give him that. 

 **Outgoing [0919]:** Come on now, Bluegrass. I'm a Deputy US Marshal, it's my job to track people down. I have technology, manpower, and a police force at my disposal. Boy Band gave it to me. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **: [0919]:** Lyman Berger put a bounty on Raylan's head. Somebody is trying to collect. 

  

\-- 

  

Winona is angry, but not nearly as angry as AUSA Vasquez. Tim had been kicked out of the conference room, and he and Winona are sat at his desk, staring openly through the glass as Vasquez screams at Raylan. It isn't fair, really. Raylan looks like shit. He's still wearing the same clothes Tim had last seen him in, but they are caked down the front with Raylan's blood, dirt, and what looks like orange juice. Judging from the splatters of blood on the thigh of Raylan's jeans, he'd managed to knee one of the guys who jumped him in the face, but he'd still got his ass handed to him before being tied up and thrown in the trunk of the car. They'd all had a decency to ignore the stain and smell that told them Raylan had pissed himself at some point in the thirty six hours he'd spent as a hostage. 

"This is the reason I left him, and yet I still keep finding myself getting drug into this shit." Winona says, tapping her fingers against the corner of Tim's desk. Tim notices that she's had her nails painted a dark purple since the last time he saw her. 

"You two don't act like you've left him." Tim tells her, wondering what it would feel like to him if he drummed his fingers like she is doing. He doesn't remember ever having done that as a kid, only remembers that he used to tap his foot. Tim didn't do any real fidgeting anymore though, had lost the habit in Ranger school. He shifted his weight, moved around if his ass started to fall asleep from sitting still too long, but he never moved just for the sake of movement. Mark had a point when he said Tim's gestures looked forced, because a lot of them were. He would shuffle his feet if he noticed somebody staring at him for too long, because he knew his stillness could creep people out. He'd swing his hands around when he talked with more gusto than he actually felt. Faking a habit could sometimes become a habit itself. 

"We're not rid of each other, but we haven't been sleeping together for months, not since the pregnancy scare." Winona shocks Tim with that little revelation, but she just keeps on talking passed it. "I'm cursed with him, can't stop myself from giving a shit about him. I haven't been in love with him in a long while, and he hasn't been with me for even longer. I still care though." 

Tim makes a noncommittal noise in response, and digs his phone out of his pocket to send off two texts. 

 **Outgoing [1324]:** You want to get dinner tonight? 

 ** _Outgoing [1324]:_** Have you ever gotten a girl pregnant? 

 **Mark** **Scarponi [1324]:** im still at ur house so yeh 

 ** _Boy_** ** _d_** ** _Fucking_** ** _Crowder_** ** _[1324]:_** Is this what a relationship with you is going to be like, Deputy Guts? The answer is no, the question is why do you ask? 

 **Outgoing [1325]:** How did you get to my house last night anyway? 

 ** _Outgoing [1325]:_** Does it help that our relationship could become illegal if ever you decide to get a warrant put out for your pointy little head? I imagine that kind of thing helps you get it up. The answer to your question is I was curious how scary a man might find something like that. 

 **Mark** **Scarponi [1325]:** i took a cab think i scard the drvr prty bad 

 ** _Boy_** ** _d_** ** _Fucking_** ** _Crowder_** ** _[1326]:_** Why, Deputy, you know me all too well. The answer to your original question is, I imagine a thing like that would be terrifying for a man like Raylan. 

Tim smiled to himself. Boyd Crowder was one sharp fucking tack.


	4. Oh, Raylan boy! I think you need to go!

MONDAY II 

  

Tim is so happy to see Raylan that he actually can't stop himself from rushing his steps as he enters the office, smiling wide at the man when he walks up to him. He wants to reach out and hug him but he knows shit like that isn't welcome with Raylan. He can't remember if he's ever actually touched Raylan at all, doesn't think he has outside maybe a pat on the back. When they'd parted ways last night Raylan had still been covered in blood, had still been snapping at everybody who even looked at him. Tim had been shuffled out of the room before he could get any details from Raylan on what had happened, and he knew it was no use to ask him now. All he knew was some lowlifes had got the drop of Raylan in the parking lot, and left him tied in the trunk for two nights while they argued about how much money to ask Lyman for. 

"Here I thought you might actually take the day off like you were told." Tim smiles, can feel that it's too wide to be appropriate. He can't help it though, not when he is standing in front of Raylan's desk, looking down at the man and being met with a familiar dry stare. 

"And let you and Boyd catch Berger?" Raylan jokes, smiles back at Tim, and Tim feels like his teeth are going to shatter from how hard his grin is pressing at his face. 

"How many times has Boyd saved your life now? Cause way he tells it, it's four." Tim says. 

"Well if you already know, why did you ask?" Raylan's smile slips from his face, but he's using his _I'm-pretending-to-sound-sad-because-I-know-it's-cute_ voice. 

"Wondering if you'd contradict him." Tim forces his own smile down, tells himself not to make _eyes_ at Raylan Givens in the middle of the fucking office. Or ever. 

"Rachel told me you spent the whole day with him. I'm not sure how I feel about that." Raylan admits. 

"If you're any kind of smart man you'll feel threatened. I ever decide to join Boyd's team and you're fucked." Tim tells Raylan. "You're all fucked!" he tells the room at large. He can't stop the giddy excitement he feels at Raylan being _alive_ and _okay_ and _in one piece_ and _here in front of_ _Tim_ _'s_ _own eyes with no more than a few bumps to the head_. He can feel the extra bounce in his step as he heads to his own desk, but tells himself nobody else could possibly notice such a thing. 

  

\-- 

  

 **Outgoing [0825]:** The US Marshal Service thanks you for your assistance in the rescue of Raylan Givens. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[0826]:** Well the US Marshal Service are the belligerent assholes who refused to let me anywhere near Raylan Givens despite the fact that I am the one who led them to that particular house in the first place. 

 **Outgoing [0826]:** Man the way you talk gives me a boner even over text. You do that shit on purpose? 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[0826]:** While my tastes don't lie in your particular neck of the woods, I do appreciate the compliment. 

 **Outgoing [0826]:** Oh bullshit Bluegrass, the only men who have ever clocked me being gay are the ones who are projecting at least a little bit. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[0827]:** It's with my deepest sympathies that I inform you that I could only tell because first time we met you kept looking at that young patrolman's ass when you thought nobody was looking. You're not as sly as you think you are. 

 **Outgoing [0827]:** What can I say the uniform really gets me going. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[0827]:** Tell me, are we having this conversation while you sit only a few feet from our mutual friend? 

 **Outgoing [0828]:** We are indeed. He keeps making me read out parts of these files to him because he still reads at a second grade level and can't sound out things like "misdemeanor" and "dog" it's all very educational for him. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[0829]:** Let me guess, another thing that helps you achieve sexual gratification is secret conversations with criminals while your fellow deputies are none the wiser? 

 **Outgoing [0829]:** I've never done it before but I have to say I find it endlessly entertaining so far. Are you committing a crime right now? Cause that might actually be kind of hot. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[0830]:** As a matter of fact I am not. I'm sitting down to a breakfast cooked for me by my lovely woman. If you don't mind me asking, how pent up do you have to be to keep flirting with me like you're doing? 

 **Outgoing [0830]:** I don't imagine anybody can understand the level of pent up I live with, Bluegrass. Why don't you give me Boy Band's number so I can have some real sexy criminal fun time? 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[0831]:** I must admit I do not know where Jimmy's orientation stands, but either way I don't imagine you actually have any intention of outing yourself to him. You seemed mighty frightened when you realized I knew. 

 **Outgoing [0831]:** Don't ask, don't tell, Bluegrass. 

 **Boy** **d** **Crowder** **[0831]:** You're not a soldier anymore, Guts. 

  

\-- 

  

"Do you want to get Thai for dinner tonight?" Tim asks, spinning his chair around to he's facing the back wall, staring at the mini-blinds that he doesn't think he's ever opened in the time he'd been in this office. 

"No, I'm cooking. I found this great recipe online, you just got to pick up the groceries on your way home." Mark tells him through the phone. Tim can hear Chilipepper meowing in the background. It's his hunting meow, and Tim figures Mark is flinging his ribbon-on-a-stick around for him. 

"Why do I feel like we're living in some kind of domestic bliss? We ain't even room mates." Tim says as he's contemplating opening the mini-blinds, wondering what the hell is even on the other side of that window. 

"You didn't notice that I moved in?" Mark laughs. 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Tim sighs, and he hears Chilipepper let out an annoyed sound that tells him Mark has put the toy down before Chili was done attacking it. 

"When I took a cab over here the other night? I brought all my things. My landlord kicked me out. She was very nice about it though, let me borrow some cardboard boxes." Mark says, and then Tim hears the sound of him opening the fridge. 

"I think she's called a landlady if you don't want to sound sexist." Tim says, and Mark tells him to shut the fuck up. "Did you really just move in while I wasn't home and then not tell me?" 

"I pretty much live here anyway, and I was a little busy that night if you don't remember." Mark tells him, and Tim just sighs through his nose. 

"Well you can pay rent if you're gonna be making it official, asshole." Tim says as he listens to the sound of Mark rummaging around in the fridge. "Text me a list of what you need me to pick up for tonight. I might be home a bit late though, Art's sending me and Raylan out to the backwoods to try and get a lead on Berger." 

"Let him drive, give him road head." Mark says, and Tim can't help but turn and look over his shoulder, see if anybody is trying to eavesdrop on his conversation. 

"That's not going to happen. Just because you said that, I'm going to drive now." Tim tells him. 

"Fine, let him give you head. Either way, somebody should suck some dick. Literally any dick getting sucked in your general vicinity is a good thing, right now." Mark seems to have found what he'd been looking for, because he's shoved something into his mouth and is chewing loudly into the receiver. 

"Well then how about you suck mine when I get home tonight?" Tim smirks, listening to Mark trudge back into the living room. Chilipepper resumes his angry meowling until Tim hears the sound of a bell, and knows Mark has picked up his dangly-jingly-mouse-thing instead. 

"I'll make you a deal, Guts. You come out to everybody you work with today, and I will give you a blowjob tonight. It's a one time deal. Don't think I'm gonna suck you off whenever you finally decide to come out. You don't do it today, you don't get to collect your blowjob." Mark says it like he's serious, but Tim knows he isn't. Besides, the thought of Mark's lips on him makes Tim a little sick. 

"All the more reason for me to not do it today." Tim laughs. He decides he'll open the mini-blinds tomorrow, and spins his chair back around. 

"You think I don't remember that time you got drunk and kissed me, but I remember Guts. I remember your cute little lips." Mark makes kissing noises into the phone, and Tim hangs up on him. 

  

\-- 

  

Raylan is sitting in Tim's passenger seat with an ice cream cone, telling him how he thinks the cut on his side is going to scar, when a bullet hits the windshield. The glass shatters, cuts into Tim's face and neck, and he can feel the sting of it before he registers anything else. Raylan starts shouting, and over the ringing in his ears Tim can tell it's directed at him. Tim undoes his seat belt, throwing it off so violently the buckle hits the door frame with a thud. He feels Raylan's hands pulling on him as he goes to get out of the car, and his first thought is anger that Raylan dropped his ice cream cone in Tim's car. His second is that Raylan's hand would be better suited going for his own gun like Tim's are doing. His third is that there is pain screaming through his chest. 

"Scarponi is going to be so fucking upset." Tim hisses through his teeth, shaking Raylan off and throwing the truck door open. He knows he's going to fall out, tucks his head to turn it into a roll. His shoulder hits the pavement and new pain blossoms through his entire body. He doesn't know exactly where he was hit, but he knows it wasn't his heart, so he tunes it out. He doesn't have to look down to see the blood spreading across his chest and torso, or to feel where it's started to run down his arm, dripping off the tips of his fingers where they wrap around his gun. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" Raylan yells, trying to reach across the truck to snatch at the back of Tim's shirt, though Tim doesn't get why Raylan isn't following him. 

"I'm going to get my rifle and kill whoever’s shooting at us." Tim tells him before moving to do just that. He listens to the sound of the gunfire as he backs towards the trunk, and _then_ he gets why Raylan doesn't want to get out of the cab. He can hear the sounds of LMG's being fired, estimates there are about four of them. It sounds like war. Tim's heart starts racing, making his blood pump harder, spill from his bullet hole faster. The whole front of his shirt and the top of his jeans are soaked through with blood, leaving his skin sticky and hot. 

"If you die I'm going to tell your friend Scarponi it was your own fault!" he hears Raylan shout from the cab of the truck. 

"If I die I guarantee you Scarponi will off himself within an hour of getting the news." Tim whispers to himself. He pops open the back of the SUV, holsters his sidearm as he's climbing in and ducking behind the back seats. He pulls his rifle out of it's bag, settles the barrel between the headrests, and tells Raylan, "You tell him I got poisoned, or hit by a bus. I die here and you make sure Scarponi thinks I went some non-combat way. He doesn't need to know about it if I die like this." Tim's hands are steady as he leans forward to peer through the lens, but he can feel the panic rushing through his body. He knows that the blood he's still spewing is probably pure adrenaline and fear. 

"Can you see them?" Raylan asks during a break in the machine gun fire. Tim counts only two seconds before he hears the bullets resume bouncing off the metal of the truck, wonders to himself how the fuck Raylan hasn't been hit yet. 

"Shut the fuck up, Marine." Tim barks, trying to get something in his sights. All he sees are empty buildings, empty cars, empty streets. They were driving to somewhere, he doesn't remember where, but they were stopped in the middle of a street in the middle of nowhere now. Tim doesn't know the landscape and he can't see shit. 

"Tim, I'm gonna need you to do something, here." the marine yells, and Tim feels the car shift to the side as one of the bullets hits their front left tire. The movement changes his line of sight, and he's suddenly looking at the ground. 

"I said silence it, Private!" Tim yells. Blood flies from his mouth, hitting the car seat in front of him, and the rifle resting on it. His head swims for a second, and he knows he's counting down minutes until blood loss takes him out. "Scarponi, get me a fucking target!" Tim orders, but is distantly aware that there isn't anyone crouched at his side. 

"Tim?" a voice calls from in front of him, but Tim just focuses on looking for someone to kill. His spotter has fucked off, and he has to find whoever is firing on them by himself. 

"Fucking Taliban fucks." Tim mutters to himself. He tries to shift his rifle to a firmer position on his shoulder, but his grip is loose, and the gun nearly slips from his hands. When he finally gets it resting where he needs it, he gets lucky. It's really the only word for it when the man steps too far into the window he's shooting from and lands himself right in Tim's sight. Tim only has to shift by nine degrees to line up a kill shot, and he takes it. He's surprised when the gun kicks back at him, something that he hasn't even felt since he was a cadet. He finds himself pushed over by it though, falling to his back on the hard bed of the Humvee. He brings a hand up to his chest, wonders for a moment where his body armor is, feels that his entire chest is a wet mess. There is glass embedded all over his front, and Tim feels dull throbbing in his right cheek that tells him it's there, too. His fingers skim over a hole in the upper right of his chest, big enough that he could sink three fingers in if he wanted. 

"Tim!" somebody shouts. He thinks it must be Scarponi, finally coming back to his fucking post. Except Scarponi never calls him Tim, though. Nobody calls him Tim, only Wish Wash had ever called him that during combat. Fuck, _Wish Wash_. Tim's brain wants to skip over to thoughts of the man so bad. 

"Medic!" Tim cries out, but more blood comes up with his words, and he chokes on it. "Scarponi!" he cries again, and blood sprays from his mouth, splashing down over his own face. It gets in his eyes, and he closes them against the burn. 

"Tim, fuck, stay with me." somebody puts their hands over his wound, and Tim thinks it must be a medic. The sound of firing has stopped, but Tim knows there was more than one enemy outside of the vehicle. Tim doesn't remember what happened to their driver, doesn't remember how many other men got hit. There is wind blowing across his face, but it doesn't carry the familiar scent of wet sand, just smells like grass to him. 

"Scarponi hit?" Tim asks, wondering why the fuck his spotter had ditched him in the middle of a firefight. 

"Let me make a call." the medic tells him, and Tim tries to order him to answer the question, but just coughs up more blood instead. "Shit, shit. Yes, this is Deputy Givens. I need backup, and an ambulance. Shit, Tim's been hit. Deputy Gutterson, Deputy Gutterson is down." the medic sounds like he's panicking, like he can't remember what he's supposed to say. Nothing he's saying really makes sense to Tim, except his own name. 

"Sergeant Major Gutterson." he tries to tell the medic, tries to let him know he got his rank wrong. The words don't really come out though, because there is no air in Tim's body anymore. Blood fills his mouth, and he spits some more out onto his own chin. 

"Tim, open your eyes. Tim, look at me!" the medic is screaming in his face, and Tim opens his eyes. He has a hard time focusing, still has his own blood and spit under his eyelids, but he makes out the shape of a man's face leaning close to his. 

"Scarponi?" Tim asks again, and the medic nods. 

"He's fine, he's fine. He's not here." the medic tells him. 

"Where?" Tim chokes, stops breathing, and the medic screams again. He doesn't know what the man is saying, but he doesn't get a chance to think about it again before he feels his heart catch once in his chest, and everything goes black.


	5. Aw, Mark dear, what shall I say?

TUESDAY II 

  

Tim jolts awake in a haze of pain and he screams for Mark. He keeps screaming until he loses oxygen and a machine somewhere to his left starts to shriek just as loudly, like it wants to drown him out. His brain is a repetition of _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_ as he slips back into unconsciousness. 

  

WEDNESDAY II 

  

"I'm fine." Tim's voice comes out quiet and raspy as he says this for what he knows is the seventeenth time. He's been keeping count through the haze of _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_ his brain has yet to let up on. 

"You have to be in a lot of pain." the nurse says, as if Tim isn't fully aware of that. It's breaking Tim's heart that he doesn't even have a hot male nurse, and instead has a plump middle aged woman who reminds him, for some reason, of Walter Sobchak and who smells like cranberry sauce. 

"I'm not." he tells her, and he knows that this is the thirteenth time's he's assured her of this. 

"Young man," she starts, but Tim is saved when Raylan steps into the room, and immediately sucks all the attention up for himself. Raylan hadn't been here when he woke up this morning, but the beat cop that had been sitting out front of Tim's room had called him, and Tim isn't at all surprised that Raylan looks fresh as a fucking daisy when he finally shows up. 

"Did you call Scarponi?" Tim asks him, and it's more like a demand. He tries to lean up straighter in the bed, but the pressure and pinching it causes in his shoulder makes him stop. As soon as the nurse leaves he'll push himself all the way up to sitting, despite it. He just can't do it in front of her because he knows he'll grimace and whine when he does, and then she'll just fuss and try to give him drugs again. He had a card he kept tucked in his wallet that said not to give him any pain killers stronger than Ibuprofen, and he was glad the doctor had seen it and abided by it. 

"I tried to but I couldn't get a hold of him." Raylan tells him. Tim watches as the man takes off his hat, his hand a little unsteady, and brushes his hair back. _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_ _!_ goes Tim's brain 

"Try and convince him to let me give him something." the nurse snaps at Raylan, like it's all his fault, before she storms out of the room. 

"You refusing medical treatment, Tim?" Raylan is trying to joke, but his voice is harsh, and he's frowning at Tim like he's concerned. 

"I'm refusing pain killers." Tim groans, coughs when even that hurts, and let's out a hiss as he leans his weight on his arms, scooting himself further up the bed. The pain in his shoulder and chest is some of the worst he's ever had. It's probably the top third pain he's ever felt, but it's hardly enough to warrant drugs. Tears threaten to well up in his eyes as the stitches in his chest pull tight, his pec trying to flex muscle that isn't there anymore. "And I told her I'm going home tonight and she got pretty pissed." He tells Raylan. _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_ _, oh god_ _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_ , his mind insists. 

"Tim, you just woke up this morning after getting shot in the lung." Raylan scolds him, and Tim snorts in annoyance. The sound doesn't mask the noises of pain he makes as he finally shoves himself into a sitting position. His eyes are wet but he's thankful he doesn't actually shed a tear in front of Raylan Givens. It's bad enough that Tim's shirtless, leaving Raylan to see not only his bruised and scabbed chest, but all the old scars he has littered across his body as well. Last thing he needs is Raylan thinking he's _vulnerable_. 

"First of all, my lung is fine. My esophagus got punctured by my dislocated SC joint and broken clavicle, and apparently esophagi are bleedy little fuckers. Second of all, it ain't my fault you let me sleep all through yesterday. We have work to do." Tim tries to sound reprimanding, but mostly thinks he sounds like he's whining. His thoughts still sing _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_ _, Scarponi,_ _Mark_. 

"No. _I_ have work to do, _you_ have healing to do." Raylan steps up to the bed, puts his hand on Tim's bare back, and takes some of his weight. Tim sighs through his nose, finds himself burning at the contact. 

"If you were me, would you take time to heal?" Tim asks, but doesn't give Raylan a chance to respond before he returns to his first train of thought, the only one that really matters. "I need to call Scarponi." 

"Listen, I need to talk to you about that, and you are going to sit there and shut the fuck up as I do. You even think about trying to move out of that bed and I will give you even more reason to be in it. Understand?" Raylan has that wide eyed look he gets when he's thinking about shooting somebody, and his hand it still pressing against Tim's back. His fingers are clenched, and his nails are digging into Tim's bare skin. 

"Tell me, now." Tim snaps. _Mark_ _!_ _Mark_ _!_ _Mark_ _, oh god, oh fuck,_ _Mark_ _!_ his mind is becoming frantic. 

"He left a lot of voice messages. The first one was asking you something about dinner, but then they got pretty hectic after that." Raylan tells Tim as he's reaching into his own back pocket to pull out Tim's phone. Tim is taking it from him and pulling his mailbox up before Raylan even finishes talking. "Oh, and side note, you also have two texts from Boyd fucking Crowder which I did not read, tempted as I was." Raylan tries to sound playful but all Tim can think is _MARK_ _MARK_ _MARK_ _MARK_ _MARK_ _MARK_ _MARK_. Thankfully Raylan hadn't deleted the voice mails, and as Tim listens to them, his panic starts climbing up, clawing at the inside of his already torn up chest. 

"Hey Guts, are you at the grocery store yet? I forgot to tell you we need olive oil because you're an animal and don't keep any in our pantry." Mark is happy, playful. Next message, "Guts? When are you coming home? Call me back." Mark is hesitant but still happy. Next message, "Guts, Guts, where the fuck are you?" Mark is worried, upset. Next message, "Guts, god please call me back. Please!" Mark is terrified. Next message, "Guts I need you, where are you? Guts!" Mark is panicking, in pain, screaming. Next message, "Guts," Mark says something that is drowned out with sobs and choking sounds and then is screaming again. "please come home, make it stop, make it stop!" Next message, "I need you. I can't," Mark is sobbing and then, quiet, whispering, "I'm coming to find you. I need you." Next message, is nothing but a garble of sobs, Mark is trying to speak unintelligibly, and then there is a sickening scream of pain that gets cut off halfway through. 

"I need to get to him." Tim's adrenaline had kicked in as soon as he heard Mark's second message, and he doesn't even register the pain that shoots through him as he swings his legs out, intending to stand up. 

"No, no. Tim!" Raylan is still there though, and Tim crashes into his body when he tries to throw himself out of the bed. It is probably a good thing on one hand, because without Raylan's weight on him, Tim would have fell to the floor. Raylan still has a hand on Tim's back, moves his other so it's pressing against Tim's stomach to steady him. Tim's lower legs are being pressed back against the bed by Raylan's thighs, and he finds himself trapped. 

"Raylan, let the fuck go of me. I need to find him." Tim brings his hands up to push at Raylan, but his injured right arm only makes it halfway up before the joints lock up. The hand on Tim's good arm pushes at Raylan's chest, but his right hand is pressing somewhere near the man's hip uselessly. Raylan doesn't budge. 

"What is going on? I mean fuck, Tim." Raylan pushes on Tim's stomach and the ring he always wears is digging into Tim's skin, but Tim doesn't let himself get shoved back. "I have never seen you scared, not so much as a god damn flinch, and two days ago I saw you," Raylan stops, like he isn't even sure what he saw. When he continues again it's slow, like he's afraid his words are going to damage Tim. He's using a tone of voice Tim knows, but can't place at the moment. "You have PTSD, which you must be damn good at hiding because I would never have guessed. I never saw war, mind, but I still trained for it, still saw what it does to people. I thought you were just," 

"Stronger than that?" Tim cuts him off. "I am. I was just delirious." Tim could try and explain what his PTSD usually looks like to Raylan, but he doesn't have the time. He doesn't even have room in his head for anything other than _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_. Which, funnily enough, _is_ what his PTSD usually looks like. 

"You thought you were back in the war." Raylan pushes on Tim's stomach again. Somewhere in the back of Tim's mind he knows that later, when everything is calm, he's going to remember the feeling of Raylan's body pressed flush against him like this. The feeling of Raylan's thighs pressed against him, pinning him down. The feeling of Raylan's hands on his naked stomach, trying to gently push him back onto the bed. Any other circumstances and Tim would be rock hard right now. 

"I was dying from blood loss and those assholes has military weaponry, excuse me for getting a little nostalgic." Tim squirms, tries to push against Raylan again. His injured arm gives out on him and his hand slides limply off Raylan's hip, his fingers coming to rest against the man's belt. Raylan only steps closer, actually pushing his full weight against Tim for the first time. If Tim weren't still on an adrenaline high of _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_ _, find_ _Mark_ _, save_ _Mark_ _,_ _Mark_ Raylan would probably topple him right over. 

"I don't know you at all do I?" Raylan whispers that part, isn't actually asking Tim, so he doesn't respond. "I think I have you pegged and then you spin your ass in some whole new direction and I have no fucking clue what's going on. You had a PTSD episode and call out for this guy, you pass out with his name on your lips, you wake up after surgery calling out for him, and now you're trying to jump out of a hospital bed to go after him? You're full of shit when you say this guy is just your friend." Raylan sounds so pissed off for a moment that his voice finally cuts through everything else, shuts off the _Mark_ _, oh god_ _Mark_ part of Tim's brain, and gets him to focus. 

"What are you asking, Raylan?" Tim forces in a deep breath, makes himself feel the way it hurts, forces himself to calm down for just long enough to have this conversation. Tim knows he's going to have to tell Raylan the truth here, just hopes the man keeps his questions vague. When he forces his body to relax, Raylan can feel it, and let's go of him. He doesn't take a step back from where his legs are trapping Tim in, but he no longer has his hands on Tim. 

"He asked when you were coming home." Raylan says simply, like it answers Tim's question. When Tim says nothing, Raylan sighs, and asks in his _I-am-trying-to-be-a-good-person-but-I-am-not-one_ voice, "He your boyfriend?" 

"No." Tim says honestly. "Are we dependent on each other? Probably. Are we gay for each other? Not in the slightest." Tim isn't lying when he says that, he hasn't found Mark attractive since he'd grown that beard back in 2008, but that had ended in a heartbeat when Tim had gotten drunk enough to try and make out with him and it had been disgusting. Raylan is searching his face when he answers, but Tim isn't worried because he's _being honest_. He's been doing that a lot lately, and he hates it. 

"So it's just complicated?" Raylan asks, a hint of amusement leaking into his voice. 

"Incredibly. Can I go find him now? To him I've been missing for two days. You were missing for that long just last week, remember? I thought you might be dead. And if Scarponi thinks I'm dead, he'll," Tim makes himself stop, can't bring himself to say the words _kill himself_ out loud in front of Raylan. "He's an addict. He told me once before I'm the only reason he even tries to get clean. If he can't find me, thinks I'm gone, he could relapse." Tim only tells Raylan the truth because he needs to let him know how serious this is. He needs Raylan to let him get up and go get Mark. 

"I will find him, I can," Raylan starts, but Tim cuts him off. 

"Right now Scarponi is either high or in the middle of a full blown PTSD melt down." _or dead_ , Tim adds to himself, and the thought makes every bone in his body ache, makes his mind threaten to swirl out of control again. "The only way he gets pulled out of either of those things is if I'm there. He has to see me, hear me. I have to be there with him." 

"Tim," Raylan tries to talk again, but Tim doesn't let him. 

"Raylan, there is no version of this that ends without me going out and going after Mark. Either you take me with you now, or I will get a cab and go by my god damn self." 

  

\-- 

  

Raylan is angry, but Tim is just anxious. He's squeezing his thumb so hard it feels like it's going to snap, but he keeps it tucked in his jacket pocket so Raylan can't see. The whole right side of his upper body is screaming in pain, but he just focuses his attention out of the car window, watching every person he sees on the street, hoping one of them will prove to be Mark.  Tim had let a sound of pain slip out earlier when Raylan had been helping him get into a button shirt, and Raylan has had the same pinched look on his face ever since. Tim's phone buzzes where he has it resting against his thigh, and he hears Raylan let out a sound of annoyance 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1432]:** I'm afraid, Federal Officer, that I do not know of any drugs dealers or their clientele. 

 **Outgoing [1432]:** This is the stupidest question I have ever asked in my life, but can I trust you? 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1432]:** You have entrusted me with a mighty large secret already, have you not? Be a little more specific here with what you are asking, and I will be perfectly honest with you in return. 

 **Outgoing [1432]:** I need you to find someone but I need to be able to trust you not to harm him in any way, even if he tries to fight you. I need to trust that your men will listen to you when you tell them not to hurt him either. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1433]:** You have my word that no harm will befall him at the hands of me or my men, but that is the extent of it. He brings harm upon himself and I will not intervene. Do you understand? 

 **Outgoing [1433]:** Perfectly. How much for you to find him? 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1434]:** Five thousand dollars and I will have your man returned to you in time for supper. 

 **Outgoing [1434]:** Done. I'll send you a photograph, you will start looking immediately. And just so we're clear, Bluegrass, this is my own money I'm giving you, this isn't coming from the Marshal service. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1435]:** You have yourself a deal, Guts. 

He sends Boyd the most recent picture he has of Mark. It's the same one that he has set as his phone background, a picture from last year of himself and Mark sitting in one of the bench seats of a carousel together, a giant teddy bear Tim had won from a ring toss game between them. Tim had played the game three times before winning, but Mark had thought the bear looked like something he'd had as a kid, and Tim just had to win it for him. He wasn't the best ring tosser, but the only game he knew he could beat first try was the shooting game and he knew what would happen if Mark ever saw Tim with a rifle in his hands, even just one from a carnival game. That bear is in Mark's room back at the house, Tim had seen it there Sunday night. Tim crops the picture so it's just Mark's face before he sends it. 

"Since when are you pen pals with Boyd Crowder? And more importantly, why?" Raylan asks him, and Tim catches Raylan looking down at his phone, trying to read his texts with Boyd. 

"Since I was tasked with using him to find your dumb ass. Which, by the way, are you good? I know being locked in the trunk of a car probably makes a man feel a bit emotional. You have any epiphanies while in there?" Tim pretends like he's joking, but Raylan can probably tell he's actually a little worried. His mind is still a swirling mess of _Mark_ and _I'm in so much god damn pain_ , and he finds he'd forgotten all about Group Of Hillbillies Number Eighty-Seven and how they'd kidnapped Raylan. 

"I'm mostly just pissed off. Not as pissed that Lyman moved up from having me kidnapped to having you shot, though." Raylan tells him. "And you didn't answer the more importantly part." 

"The short answer is I kind of like the guy. The long answer is if I trust him just far enough, he'll trust me back, and one day I will use that to take the son of a bitch down and win your affection." Tim smiles at Raylan, tries to put the force of the sun behind it, and finds that, yet again, he is being completely honest. 

"He's smarter than that, Tim." Raylan says gently. 

"I know just how smart Boyd Crowder is, believe me." Tim tells him. Then, something dawns on him and he has to wonder why it's taken him this long to ask, "Hey, why did you tell Winona you and I were going for drinks the night you got kidnapped? She thought I'd stowed you away somewhere, you know." 

"I did not tell her that. She told me I should go get drinks with you and I lied and said I would. That woman is a," Raylan cuts himself off, so Tim doesn't get to hear _what_ Winona is. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim takes five Ibuprofen in one swallow and finally lets Raylan coerce him into the sling they'd given him at the hospital. Mark wasn't at any of the places Tim thought he would be. Places he figured Mark would go to look for Tim, places Mark would go if he was having an episode, Mark's old dealer’s house (Tim had watched on happily when Raylan had thrown the guy around a bit) and finally the VA clinics and all the hospitals Mark could have gotten to. All the cab companies say they didn't pick him up, and since Tim refuses to alert the authorities, they're at a dead end. Tim hisses when Raylan's fingers brush against the part of his clavicle that's broken as the man secures the sling around his neck. 

"Sorry." Raylan mutters, withdrawing his hands from Tim, and then looking like he doesn't know what to do with them. Tim isn't going to admit it, but the sling makes his shoulder feel immediately better. 

"If Boyd actually gets hands on Scarponi, can I trust you to be okay when we go get him?" Tim checks his phone again, but the last text he got is still the one Rachel had sent hours ago telling him off for leaving the hospital. 

"I won't shoot him unless he gives me a reason." Raylan smiles. His hands are still hanging oddly at his sides and he looks a little lost, standing here in Tim's living room like he doesn't think he belongs. Chilipepper doesn't seem to think so either with the way he is eyeing Raylan from his perch on the kitchen counter, his tail twitching violently back and forth. He had actually hissed when he first saw the man, which is something Tim hadn't heard him do in a very long time. 

"It's Boyd." Tim tells Raylan as he goes to pet Chili's head, trying to calm him down. "He'll give you plenty of reason." Tim tries not to yawn, fails miserably. Raylan's face goes pinched again, and Tim rolls his eyes. 

"Hey, I'm allowed to worry about you passing out. If you open that wound back up you could bleed out and I don't want to watch that happen twice." Raylan snaps at Tim. Tim isn't sure how it escaped his notice before, but Raylan has bags under his eyes, bigger than the ones he'd had after being rescued from his kidnappers. They'd grown, which means he still hadn't gotten any good sleep. Guilt seeps into Tim's mind at the thought. 

"I'll be fine. We both actually take the day off for once and still spend it working, really. Shit." Tim sighs as he lifts his hand off of Chilipepper to rub his eyes. He has tiny cuts from the windshield glass all over his face, and they sting when his palm runs across them. "I want to make another round soon, check everywhere a second time." he tells Raylan. 

"I don't suppose I can convince you to get some sleep first?" Raylan asks, and Tim can see him looking around the house, probably trying to figure out which way Tim's bedroom is so he can drag him towards it and make him take a nap. Even with the open kitchen and living space the house was a bit odd to navigate if you didn't know it. At the far end of the kitchen, the opening to the formal dining room was right next to the opening to the hallway that led to the laundry room. The second hallway off the back wall of the living room led to the two guest bedrooms and bathroom, and the hallway off to the right of the entryway led to Tim and Mark's rooms. Their bedrooms were connected in the middle by the master bathroom, and Tim is suddenly overwhelmed with the memory of the last time he'd actually _seen_ Mark. Monday morning, Mark had been standing at his side of the sink brushing his teeth. Tim hadn't even known Mark had moved himself in at that point, but they'd just had a perfect harmony going on, and it felt so right. Tim doesn't know what he's going to do if he loses Mark. 

"No, we're leaving now." Tim gives Chilipepper one last scratch behind the ears before heading off towards his bedroom, giving Raylan a wide enough birth when he passes that the man can't reach out and stop him. "I just need to get some jeans on, these sweats make my ass look flat." 

  

\-- 

  

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1935]:** Your man bought something from a certain somebody I have no acquaintance with some hour and a half ago. 

 **Outgoing [1935]:** You pretending not to be a criminal isn't cute, Bluegrass. Tell me where the dealer lives. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1936]:** Well we can't go letting you become too in love with me, can we? I'm afraid I can't give you an address. It would look bad, I go around asking questions and then law enforcement shows up behind me, you understand. I've sent your favorite of my men out to go look for him. 

 **Outgoing [1936]:** Tell me where he is. 

 **Outgoing [1937]:** I will drive out there and beat it out of you. 

 **Outgoing [1938]:** I will bring Raylan with me. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1938]:** I can only tell you he's in Lexington, lives in an apartment building out near Triangle Center. 

  

\-- 

  

He doesn't find Mark in Triangle Center, but he does find Boy Band. 

"Get the fuck out!" Boy Band shouts when Tim climbs into his truck. He isn't tall enough that he can just slide in so he has to use his left hand to pull himself into the cab. It causes pressure at his chest and hurts like fuck, but he doesn't let Boy Band see that. 

"I'm sending Raylan home, much to his annoyance, and I'm coming with you." Tim tells him, flashing a grin. 

"Like hell you are." Boy Band frowns, and Tim tries to remember his name. He knows it sounds a lot like his own, and there are only a few like that. Tim thinks if he uses it, the kid might like him a little more. 

"Boyd is working for me right now, kid. I need to be there when Scarponi is found, and you can talk to the dealers and lowlifes that I can't. I'm coming with you." Tim says. 

"Let me call Boyd." the kid mumbles, and Tim remembers that his name is Jimmy. 

"You do that." Tim's voice is still hoarse, and it's starting to grate in his own ears. "But first, help me put my seat belt on, and know that if you jostle my injured arm in any way I'm going to rip your teeth out, Jimmy." 

"Sure." Boy Band Jimmy says, and Tim is pleased to find that the kid _finally_ looks a little scared of him **.**


	6. Tim, Tim, he's our man, if he can't do it, fuck it!

THURSDAY II 

  

Tim's hands are still caked with dried blood as he's handing Boyd Crowder a bag full of money. It almost seems more fitting that way. 

"If you don't mind me asking, is there any particular reason he reacted that way?" Boyd nods in the direction of the couch, where Mark is curled up asleep. They're standing in Boyd's office at the bar, waiting for Boy Band to get back with a clean car to take them home in. Boy Band really was as good as Boyd gives him credit for. It had taken him two hours, but he tracked Mark down in a seedy motel, and had been the one to finally tackle him to the ground after he'd run away from them. Boyd had insisted they come to his bar so he could get his money before Tim was allowed to go home. Mark had fallen asleep in the truck on the way to Harlan, and hadn't woken up since. 

"He doesn't like being touched by anybody but me. I tried to tell your man not to touch him, Boy Band wouldn't listen." Tim has been growing used to the pain in his chest, so the new pain in his nose feels like it's worse. Mark always did have a mean swing. Tim'd had almost as much blood dripping down his chest as when he got shot in it after Mark broke his nose. The t-shirt Boy Band had given him to replace his ruined button-up had been a pain in the ass to get on, but he'd managed it for the sake of appearance. The sling he's still wearing is a sickening yellowish brown color from being set in blood and dirt though, and Tim wishes he had one to change it out with. 

"I'm no expert on the subject, but I've seen a fair few addicts in my day. He's that in spades, and a whole lot more." Boyd says, and Tim smiles without humor. 

"You have no idea." Tim glances over his shoulder, making sure Mark hasn't moved from his spot under the blanket Tim had thrown around him. 

"If I didn't know any better I'd think he was your significant other, way you fuss after him." Boyd says as he's pushing a glass into Tim's hand. 

"You're the second person to say that. I know we're close but, shit." Tim doesn't even ask what's in his glass before taking a sip, and nearly chokes on the taste. "Is this fucking moonshine?" Tim looks down then, sees his glass is full of liquid so clean it could be water. 

"It's everclear. You ain't never had everclear, boy?" Boyd takes a seat at his desk, smiling at Tim over the rim of his own glass of amber liquor. 

"It's fucking disgusting." Tim tells Boyd as he downs the rest of it in a straight shot. The alcohol burns his damaged esophagus, makes Tim stop breathing for a second when pain flares through him white hot. "And don't call me boy." 

"It's ninety-five percent alcohol, you looked like you could use it." Boyd takes a sip of his own drink, and gestures to the chair in front of his desk, only continues after Tim takes a seat. "How old are you, anyway?" 

"I'm twenty-nine." Tim moves slowly as he kicks his feet up onto Boyd's desk. He swallows heavily to try and dull the pain in his throat, and he tastes blood. He remembers then that the doctor told him no alcohol under any circumstances, and he just gives himself a mental shrug. Blood isn't a new taste in his mouth, and Tim just works his jaw, swallows again, and let's it sit on his tongue. He squeezes his thumb hard enough that the knuckle pops, and Tim is hit with a sickeningly bizarre desire to break his own finger. 

"Twelve years my junior. Hell, place like Harlan that practically makes me old enough to be your daddy." Boyd doesn't laugh, but his smile is loud. 

"I'd have been better off if you were." Tim tells him. 95% alcohol on top of the eighteen Ibprofen tablets he'd choked back in the past twelve hours. All impairment and no sleep makes Timmy a talkative boy. 

"Yours no good?" Boyd sips his drink, savors it in a way Tim hasn't savored alcohol in his life. The only time he drinks anything but beer is when Art gives him bourbon, and that's only because he knows how Art will read it if Tim tells him he doesn't want any. 

"He was the perfect fucking father until he found out I was gay. Probably would have made it a lot easier if he'd been a bastard in the first place, you know? If I hadn't loved him." Tim closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see Boyd's face as he talks. "I knew how he felt about it, how sad he'd be if he ever found out. So I never said shit, pushed it down. I'd have to try so damn hard not to flinch when he'd go off about faggots this, faggots that. There was a gay couple, moved in two streets over. They were quiet about it, called each other room mate, but everybody knew. My dad drove them out of town, called them sinners and worse. I was good at keeping my mouth shut, and it wasn't a problem. Not 'till I was seventeen and I kissed a boy for the first time. Right there in my bedroom, we were supposed to be doing some kind of schoolwork, and he just leaned over and kissed me. I knew it was fucking stupid but I kept letting him do it. It was all fine and good until my dad walked in on us while I had my hand up his shirt." 

"He beat you?" Boyd asks when Tim doesn't continue for a moment. 

"No, never. He was a good man, in most respects. He never would have laid a hand on me, he loved me. He just looked at me like he didn't know who I was. We fought about it later though, when I told him I couldn't change. He called me everything I'd heard him call gay men before, and it fucking hurt worse than any hit would have. He told me I could choose between being gay, and being his son." Tim says, opens his eyes but tilts his head back so he's looking at the ceiling. It looks like it's spinning, and Tim wishes he didn't trust Boyd enough to just drink something when he was handed it. He's close to being drunk, a feeling he hasn't experience in years. He'd stopped getting drunk after the war, after he had tried to kiss Mark in the middle of a bar in Parwan Province where anybody could have seen. 

"Which did you choose?" Boyd asks, and Tim finally has a handle on one of Boyd's tones. He's using his _I-don't-want-to-like-this-but-oh-god-I-do_ voice. It's one he used during most of his conversations with Raylan. 

"Neither, I joined the Army." Tim smiles. 

  

\-- 

  

 **Outgoing [0256]:** I've got Scarponi. On the way back with him now. 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0259]:** some of us are trying to sleep asshole. you want me to come by? 

 **Outgoing [0259]:** No. I'll see you at work later. 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0301]:** you better not come into work 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0302]:** don't think i'm afraid to whoop your invalid ass if you show up at the office 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0305]:** seriously tim don't come to work today i'll be pissed. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim let's Jimmy into his house, and thinks he must have genuinely lost his mind when he doesn't even think twice about it. Chilipepper takes one look at Jimmy and runs away. Tim doesn't blame him. It's oh five hundred, and Tim is in more pain now than ever. So much pain that for the past hour he has felt warm tears dripping down his face, heard the little whines of pain that were escaping his mouth every time he exhales. He can taste blood in the back of his throat, can feel it building up, threatening to choke him. He tells himself he should probably go see Dr. Vives tomorrow, get that looked at. 

"You want something a little stronger for that?" Jimmy asks him when Tim let's out a particularly loud rasp of pain. Tim should probably feel ashamed about letting Jimmy see him this way,  but finds he doesn't have the energy. Jimmy still has a sleeping Mark thrown over his shoulder, and Tim leads him towards the couch to set him down. 

"I don't take anything stronger." Tim tells Jimmy, and flinches at how torn up his own voice sounds. 

"You don't have a punctured lung, do you?" Jimmy huffs as he lays Mark down on the couch. Jimmy is keeping an eye on Mark, probably expecting him to jump up and attack at any second. It's understandable. Jimmy has a broken nose to match Tim's, but with a split lip and bruised rib to go along with it. He'd taken a couple of morphine tablets in the car on the way here though, so he probably wasn't feeling shit. Tim had only refrained from saying anything about the pills because he noticed they came from a prescription bottle that said "Jimmy Tolan" with a date from last month. 

"No, just esophagus. I think Boyd's booze melted my stitches, though." Tim swallows thickly, and another tear slips out from how badly it hurts. 

"I'm no doctor but I'd figure if you had stitches in your throat you might not want to drink." Jimmy says as he's touching his own nose with gentle hands. He had reset it himself earlier, along with Tim's. Even bruised up, he still looks young and precious to Tim, like he was just some innocent kid who had never done a bad thing in his life. It's an odd juxtaposition since Tim knows for a fact that Jimmy Tolan has killed people. 

"Are you gay?" Tim asks him, and surprises them both. He'd meant to ask if Jimmy would help him get Mark into some clean clothes. 

"What? Why the fuck are you asking me that?" Jimmy looks more concerned than offended. 

"I don't know." Tim says honestly. He can feel his tears drying under his chin, but doesn't want to reach up, even with his good arm, to wipe at them. Even standing perfectly still like he is, it all hurts. 

"Do I seem gay?" Jimmy asks, and he sounds like a teenager, all innocent worry and wonder. 

"I'm gay." is how Tim responds, surprising them both all over again. 

"Why are you telling me? Are you trying to pick me up right now, really dude?" Jimmy sounds amused at the thought, and Tim wonders when he started to think of the kid as  _Jimmy_ and not Boy Band. 

"I don't think I'm in any condition to be fucked, right now." Tim tells him, and has to force himself not to laugh, because he knows how much it will hurt. "I just figured I should actually come out to someone. I never have." 

"Nobody knows you’re gay?" Jimmy sits down on the coffee table, looking up at Tim with an expression that makes him look even younger than he is. Tim had looked at his file before, and they had considered shutting Boyd down for hiring a bartender who was only twenty, but it had seemed a little desperate. 

"Well, no, not nobody. Obviously the guys I've slept with know, but there aren't too many of those, and I wouldn't call what I said to them 'coming out.' Mark figured it out on his own, and I have no idea how the fuck Boyd pegged it, but he did." Tim pauses, takes the deepest breath he can, which isn't much, and says again. "I'm gay." and he realizes that this is actually the first time he's said the words. He's said  _I like_ _dick_ , or _I'd really like to get fucked by you_ but never just  _I'm gay_. 

"Well, okay." Jimmy glances over at Mark, but the man hasn't so much as twitched. "Why pick me to be the first person you come out to, though?" 

"Because I figure if Boyd is going to go back on his promise and decides to out me to the world, you'll be the first person he tells anyway. And if he keeps his promise, it extends to you and you can't say shit." Tim tells him. 

"He won't out you, you know. Boyd will lie through his teeth about business, but not when it comes to personal shit like that. He's a man of his word on those kinds of things." Jimmy assures him, but Tim already knows that. 

"Good. Now that we've settled that, can you help me get him cleaned up? I normally just toss him in the shower and change his clothes but I can't really do much of anything, right now." Tim is still standing stock-still next to the couch, and he knows when he finally goes to move it's going to be agony. He wonders if this is what Mark feels all the time, if this is the  _fuck it hurts so much, I'm dying, Guts, please_ he always talks about. 

"He wakes up, he's gonna try to kill me again?" Jimmy asks, but he stands up and reaches for Mark anyway. 

"He won't wake up any time soon. I know what he's like when he crashes, he'll be out for hours." Tim tells him, hoping he's right. 

"You should probably go to bed, man. I'll take care of your boy here." Jimmy smiles at him, but it's hesitant. He lifts Mark back onto his shoulder, only flinching a little bit at the pain in his bruised ribs. 

"I'm not leaving him alone. It ain't that I don't trust you, though I shouldn't,  it's just that I'm not letting him out of my sight, not again." Tim gives Jimmy what he hopes is a stern look. When Jimmy nods in response, Tim leads him to the guest bathroom where the tub shower is. The first step he takes is excruciating, and _this_ , this is the worst pain he's ever felt in his life. Now that Mark is safe and he has used up all his adrenaline and strength, the only thing left in his body is pain. The tears start anew as he starts a slow shuffle to the bathroom, and Tim can't keep the groans of pain quiet enough. Tim's just grateful Jimmy doesn't say anything, just stays in step behind him, going at the agonizingly slow pace Tim sets. He doesn't keep track of how long it takes Jimmy to get Mark out of his clothes and sitting on the bottom of the tub, but Tim has settled himself onto the toilet lid and is thumbing open his bottle of Ibuprofen when Jimmy starts taking off his own shirt. 

"What're you doing?" Tim asks, not even counting the handful of pills he chokes back. 

"It's the only shirt I have, I gave you my spare. I don't want it getting wet." Jimmy tells him. "And you know, letting yourself take some morphine for that pain isn't gonna be any less addictive than downing that weak shit like it's candy." he adds, but Tim chooses to ignore him. 

"Why are you doing this anyway? Boyd told you to find him. I didn't actually expect you to say yes to giving him a bath. Don't tell me you're sweet on me?" Tim chokes halfway through his joke, spits blood into the sink and ruins the effect. 

"Boyd told me to stay with this guy until we knew he wasn't going to snap and hurt you. If anybody is sweet on you, it's Boyd. He told me to keep you safe." Jimmy tells him, and Tim thinks he has underestimated just how _human_   Boyd Crowder really is. "And hey, when I'm done getting him clean, I'll help you take care of changing those filthy bandages you got before I head to the couch. I need to crash." 

"You can have the guest bedroom. It's painted pink though, hope you don't mind." Tim doesn't think his words are quite making it all the way out of his throat, but Jimmy nods and mutters a thanks before turning to Mark. 

Jimmy isn't as gentle as Tim would be, actually let's Mark's head smack against the tub’s edge after he rinses out the shampoo, but Tim finds he can't really care. He's fully aware that if Mark had been safe and sound when he'd woken up, he'd have stayed in the hospital and let himself heal for a few more days. He'd be in pain, but not _this much_ pain, and he wouldn't have a broken nose to go along with it. Tim watches Jimmy rinse filth from Mark's body, and asks himself why the fuck he keeps letting Mark do this to him. He told Mark last time he relapsed that he wouldn't be there if he did it again. He'd said it the time before that, and the time before that too. Mark would stay clean for a few months at a time, but then something would happen and he'd go off on a bender like this, and Tim would be stuck cleaning up the mess. Tim spits more blood into the sink, hisses in pain as his broken clavicle throbs for no reason, and starts to cry again. This time it's not out of pain, but frustration. He knows Jimmy probably wouldn't have been able to tell the difference if not for the way that it's actually sobbing this time, not just tears leaking out. 

"Hey, hey, man, you alright?" Jimmy drops the showerhead at Mark's feet and shuffles over to Tim on his knees. 

"It's none of your business." Tim tries to say, but he lets out a sob instead. The sob turns into a sound of pain which turns into Tim choking on more blood. Tim hears Chilipepper's voice pick up angrily somewhere to his left. The cat wants to come and help Tim, but doesn't want to get near Jimmy.  

"I think you need to go back to the hospital." Jimmy reaches out like he wants to put his hands on Tim, but is afraid he'll hurt him. He probably would, and Tim is glad when Jimmy lets his hands rest against the toilet on either side of Tim's legs instead. 

"What I need is for this to _stop_." Tim chokes out, and his crying is making everything hurt worse. He has to suck in more air than his chest can handle, and his shoulders are shaking with the force of his sobbing. The tears are dripping into the tiny cuts on his face and Tim has never felt anything quite so horrible. "I can't do this anymore, I can't take care of him like this. I have to take care of myself for once in my fucking life." 

"Okay, so do that. Why do you care about this guy so much anyway? I mean you paid Boyd quite a bit of money just for me to beat him up and give him a bath." Jimmy looks up at Tim, but he's fuzzy through Tim's tears. 

"He's only like this because of me!" Tim isn't sure his words are actually coming out as anything more than choking sounds. "I didn't listen when they told me not to go into the buildings, I defied an order because I was cocky and I nearly got us both killed. I fucked up, I fucked up and he has to pay the price."  

"Guilt is useless." Jimmy tells him, but Tim knows that already.  

"I love him, he's my brother." Tim's body shudders, which sends pain slicing through him so sharply that he almost screams. Jimmy puts his hands on Tim's thighs, and it takes Tim a second to realize he'd started to slip from the toilet. Jimmy says something then, but Tim's body decides it's had enough of this shit, and shuts down on him. 

  

\-- 

  

When Tim wakes up, he's laying in his bed, and Mark is nowhere to be seen. Chilipepper is pressed against his hip under the covers, purring gently. Tim wiggles his hand under the covers and rests it on the cat’s head. The purring intensifies, and Tim can feel Chili start licking the inside of his wrist.  He's aware that his pain is really distant, and wonders how that happened. It takes him longer than he's willing to admit to notice Jimmy standing in the doorway. 

"I imagine when you heal, you're going to rip my teeth out for that." Jimmy is wearing one of Tim's shirts, the white one with the straps on the shoulders that Tim had purchased on one of his _I should be more fashionable_ impulses. 

"What'd you do?" Tim's voice is still scratchy, but it doesn't hurt to speak anymore. 

"I crushed up two morphine tablets and made you drink them." Jimmy tells him, and Tim wants to be angry, but he really can't find the energy to be right now. Jimmy is right though, when he gets a clear head, he's going to be furious. 

"Scarponi?" he asks, without the fear he expects from himself. 

"He came to, saw me changing your bandages, and threw a bit of a fit. I told him he wasn't helping you none though, and he finally calmed down. He's sleeping." Jimmy steps into the room and comes to stand next to Tim's bed. 

"Why are you still here?" Tim asks, not because he wants Jimmy to leave, but because he doesn't get why the kid's hung around this long. 

"I called Boyd to tell him what’s going on and he told me to stay here. It's not just because of you though, he has other reasons for wanting me out of Harlan right now. I'm babysitting you _and_ hiding, two for one." Jimmy smiles down at Tim, and Tim let's out a huff of laughter. 

"I used to be such a good Deputy. Now I'm hiring criminals to do jobs for me and letting one stay in my house. Two, technically, since buying Oxy ain't strictly legal." Tim nods in the direction of Mark's bedroom, is pleased more than he should be when the action doesn't cause him immense pain. "Only way it could look even more like I was bed with criminals is if I was actually in bed with a criminal." 

"Well, like you said, you aren't in any shaped to get fucked." Jimmy leans down to whisper in Tim's ear. "Otherwise that could be arranged." he smirks. Tim isn't sure if he would like the way Jimmy says that more or less if he wasn't on morphine. 

"So you are gay." he sighs, turning his face towards Jimmy so he can look at his eyes when the kid pulls back a bit. 

"Nope. I'm fucking with you." Jimmy's face is still really close to Tim's, their broken noses just an inch away from not bumping together. 

"M' not your type?" Tim smiles up at Jimmy, wonders for a moment what Raylan Gives would think if he walked in here right now. 

"Don't think that even if I was into dudes I'd be into the ones that would sooner kick my ass than kiss it." Jimmy tilts his head, and for a second Tim thinks that if Jimmy _were_ gay, Tim would probably lean up and kiss him right now. Those kind of thoughts are exactly why Tim doesn't take morphine, even when he gets shot. 

"I could totally kick your ass." Tim whispers, and Jimmy chuckles. 

"I know. Not like this though." Jimmy stands up straight again. "You can call me when you heal, we'll wrestle." 

"Ridiculous." Tim mutters, and Jimmy just laughs. 

  

\-- 

  

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[1234]:** i'm glad to see you're not at work today but i figured i should check to make sure you're okay 

 **Outgoing [1235]:** Boy Band would have tied me to the bed if I'd tried to leave. You got any clue what is going on in Harlan right now? 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[1235]:** boy band sounds like fun. and what are you talking about? 

 **Outgoing [1236]:** Something is going down in Harlan that has Boyd Crowder scared. He's scattered his men, and the most information I can get is that they're waiting for the call to come back, and when it comes, shit is going to get real. 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[1236]:** you got any ideas? 

 **Outgoing [1237]:** I think me and you kicked the hornet's nest that is Lyman Berger and he's acting up. 

 **Outgoing [1237]:** I say we let them kill each other. 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[1238]:** just let me know when boyd calls his men back 

 **Outgoing [1238]:** Wilco. I'll try to see if I can get more information out of Boy Band. 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[1239]:**  wait boy band is one of boyd's guys? what are you doing with him? 

 **Outgoing [1239]:** Would you believe me if I told you I'm fucking him? 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[1239]:** no but i don't think i want to know the truth if that's the lie 

  

\-- 

  

"Did I do this?" Mark whispers while he hovers his hand over Tim's chest. Tim is propped up in his bed and Mark is curled up next to him with his good knee pulled up to his chin, folding in on himself. He'd come into the room a few minutes ago and climbed into the bed, looking at Tim with tears in his eyes. 

"No, you didn't hurt me." Tim tells him. Mark flinches at the sound of Tim's voice. "This is why I was gone. I got hurt at work, my truck got pretty messed up too. The windshield busted, threw glass at me." 

"You got in a car crash?" Mark asks, and finally let's his hand rest on the part of Tim's chest with the least amount of gauze. It's right over Tim's heart. 

"Yeah." Tim lies, and Mark let's out a sigh of relief. 

"When you didn't come home I got so scared. I called your office but they said you'd left with Raylan hours before. I went to find you, but when I couldn't I just," Mark pauses, closes his eyes. "I just got so fucking scared." 

"I know, Scarponi, it's okay." Tim reaches up with his good hand and rests it on top of Mark's. He can feel Mark shaking, knows that it's going to take him a long time to come down from this one. "It's all going to be okay, Mark." he says, and Mark's name tastes like wet sand in his mouth.


	7. You better run, run, run, Boyd, run.

FRIDAY II 

  

Jimmy gets a call from Boyd at 0930 and he leaves. Tim calls Raylan to let him know, and then he calls a cab to take him to see Dr. Vives. He makes Mark come with him and sit in the waiting room so he can keep an eye on him. Dr. Vives sends him home with antibiotics and morphine. Tim takes just the antibiotics and then lays in his bed and listens to the sound of Mark cooking something in the kitchen that smells overwhelmingly like garlic. Chilipepper crawls out from the closet where he'd been hiding from Jimmy earlier, and Tim folds the cat against his side as he falls back asleep. His dream is the memory of Wish Wash telling him about Canada, and he wakes up screaming. 

  

SATURDAY II 

  

Raylan doesn't have anything to tell him, and Boyd and Jimmy both don't answer the phone when Tim tries to call them. Mark makes grilled salmon since it's soft enough for Tim to eat, and Tim feeds most of his to Chilipepper. That night he has to put the war footage on the background so he can sleep, and he dreams about Raylan's hands on his stomach. 

  

SUNDAY II 

  

"What the hell are you doing here?" Rachel asks him, steps around her desk to try and cut him off. Everybody in the office had turned to look at him when he stepped through the door, and Tim had intended to ignore all of them. 

"Desk work." Tim smiles. She looks worried, and it's almost funny to Tim. Funny because she actually has no idea that Tim had made the damage to his body ten times worse while running around looking for Mark. 

"You didn't have a broken nose when I came to see you in the hospital." she says, and Tim frowns. Maybe she does have _some_ idea. 

"I thought you came by after I already left?" Tim asks, and Rachel makes a disgusted noise in response. 

"I was there the day before, jackass. You think I let you lay there for two days without coming to see you?" she reaches up to touch the side of his face, but Tim pulls away. 

"Sensitive, no touching." he tells her. 

"You tell Jimmy Tolan that?" comes Raylan's voice from behind Tim. 

"Didn't I tell you, I'm fucking him." Tim turns and smiles at Raylan. Tim's best defense in regards to keeping his sexuality a secret is by joking about it. He makes it seem like him being gay is the best joke of the century, and nobody will suspect that he actually is. It's worked out for him so far. 

"That shit is not funny." Raylan frowns at him, and he has this tone of voice Tim has never heard before, and is curious about. 

"So you figured out who Boy Band is, then? I take it you've been to see Boyd. News?" Tim continues his journey to his desk, giving Art a small wave in response to the furious look the chief has on his face. Tim counts himself lucky that Art is in the middle of a phone call and has to wait a minute before he comes out and tries to tell Tim to go home. 

"I went to talk to Boyd, yeah. He asked me how you and Mark were. Actually he asked me how Guts and Mark were, and I had no idea who the fuck he was talking about. You want to tell me about that?" Raylan is back to using a voice Tim knows. It's his _I-don't-want-to-sound-mad-but-I-am_ voice. 

"I do not." Tim tells him. When Tim sits himself gingerly in his chair, Raylan is only a few steps behind him. Tim spins around to face his desk, but his knees bump against Raylan's. Tim let's out a fake hiss of pain at the contact, and it makes Raylan take a step back. 

"You can't be friends with Boyd Crowder. Do you not even care that it could lose you your job?" Raylan puts one hand on his cocked out hip and the other on Tim's desk. His hand lands right where Winona's had, his fingers covering up Tim and Wish Wash in the little picture. Raylan leans down towards Tim, and Tim can see the anger etched into the man's face. He feels his own anger bubble to the surface. 

"If I wasn't pretending to be friends with Boyd crowder we would have no idea about the little turf war he and Berger have started up. Don't fucking patronize me, Raylan." Tim leans up as much as he's able to, watches Raylan's eyes go wide when their faces come closer together. "And if you ever try to insinuate that I don't care about this job, or that I'm not a damn fucking good Deputy, ever again? I'll kick your fucking teeth in." Tim smiles wide, wide enough that it hurts, aggravates the little cuts that have mostly healed on his cheeks. 

"I wasn't trying to say that you're not," Raylan starts, but is cut off when Tim huffs through his nose. They both know damn well what he meant, and Tim isn't in the mood to hear any of his bullshit. 

"I'm going to use Boyd to get us Berger, and than I'm going to get you Boyd. Shut the fuck up and let me do my god damn job, Raylan." Tim knows he sounds angrier than he actually is, but he just wants Raylan to stand up straight and get out of his face. In the back of his mind right now Boyd crowder's voice is saying _the man you're sleeping with_ over and over again. Tim's heart picks up the pace by a bit, and Tim is suddenly so nervous that he feels like he's going to throw up. He really hopes he doesn't, because Dr. Vives told him if he throws up, he could reopen the wounds on his esophagus and re-dislocate his SC joint and doesn't that just sound _fun_. 

"I know you're a good Marshal, Tim. Hell of a lot better than me." Raylan tells him, and finally leans back, get's out of Tim's face. Tim is thinking about Jimmy for some reason, how he'd leaned in so close Tim had been tempted to kiss him,. Only because it has been over a year since he'd been kissed and he was aching for somebody to. Tim loved nothing more than the feeling of being kissed. Gently in the middle of the night, roughly in the middle of a fight, messily over his shoulder while he's being fucked from behind. Literally any way he's ever been kissed, he's loved. Tim feels kisses all the way to the tips of his toes. 

"Tim!" comes Art's voice from behind Raylan, and Tim tries to sink himself back down into his chair, hide himself behind Raylan's body. It works until Raylan steps to the side. 

"Yes, sir?" Tim asks, giving Art what he hopes is a look that says _I'm-not-in-any-pain-and-I'm-a-good-boy_. 

"If I'm going to have to stare at your bruised mug all day long, I better see it doing some actual work for once." is all Art tells him before ducking back into his office. Raylan makes a sound of annoyance, like he was hoping Art would send Tim home. Tim's just glad he didn't. 

  

\-- 

  

 **Outgoing [0845]** : I'm starting to feel like you don't love me anymore, Bluegrass. 

 **Outgoing [0859]** : Are you committing a crime right now? I bet you are. Tell me all about it, give me a good Marshal stiffy. 

 **Outgoing [0915]** : Come on, baby, why are you ignoring me? You're not stepping out on me with another officer of the law, are you? 

 **Outgoing [0921]** : If I send you a picture of my dick will it get your attention? 

 **Outgoing [0936]** : -Download Attachment- 

 **Outgoing [0953]** : Consider me legitimately offended. 

 **Outgoing [1012]** : Did you know that beer isn't considered alcohol in Russia? Good news for me since it's the only booze I drink. 

 **Outgoing [1024]** : I miss your sweet words, Bluegrass. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1043]** : Isn't it illegal to send unsolicited pictures of your penis? 

 **Outgoing [1043]** : I have to tell you, I have no idea. Did you actually look at it? I took it just for you, right here in the courthouse bathroom. Ain't he pretty? 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1046]** : I must admit I didn't believe that would actually be what the picture was of. You're a braver man than I, Guts. I am curious though, what had you so at attention. 

 **Outgoing [1046]** : I was thinking of you, of course. 

 **Outgoing [1047]** : Nah, I just figured if I was gonna be whipping it out, might as well give the little guy some attention. It's been a while. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1049]** : Are you telling me you masturbated in the Lexington courthouse, while taking a pornographic photo for an alleged criminal? 

 **Outgoing [1050]** : If I call you right now can I get you to say that out loud, nice and slow? 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1051]** : I imagine that would have done you more good over an hour ago, don't you? 

 **Outgoing [1051]** : Oh, I'm young. I can get it up again if you want. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1053]** : Is there any real reason you've sent me over fifty text messages in the last three days? 

 **Outgoing [1053]** : I know you're up to your eyeballs in trouble over there and I want to make sure you're not dead and or making other people dead. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1054]:** As you can tell, I am not dead. 

 **Outgoing [1055]** : Unless your Boyd's killer, pretending to be him to throw me off. I hope not, that would make the dick pic a little awkward. Now that I think of it, how DO I know this really is Boyd? 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1056]** : I can tell you that you shorted me eighty-five dollars out of the money you owed me. 

 **Outgoing [1056]** : Boy Band would know that. Boy Band, did you kill your boss and take over his business? Cold blooded, man. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1058]** : Don't take this the wrong way, Deputy Gutterson, but you are an annoying man. 

 **Outgoing [1058]** : You love me. 

 **Boy** **d** **Fucking** **Crowder** **[1102]** : Is any part of what you've been saying even true? 

 **Outgoing [1102]** : Well that IS a picture of my cock, but I took it ages ago. I haven't gotten up from my desk all day today. 

  

\-- 

  

On the way home Tim is hit suddenly by how spectacularly stupid he is. Boyd could, at this point, ruin him. He could walk into Art's office, hand the chief his phone, and Tim's life would crumble around him. He _paid_ _Boy_ _d_ _money_ , his own fucking money, to track down a man involved in illegal activities. Tim would lose his job, would lose _everything_. And he doesn't even know _why_ , why he has done any of this shit. He sent the man a picture of his dick, for fuck's sake. Besides that, besides all of that, Boyd is now one of a grand total of six people still alive who know Tim is gay. Boyd has everything he needs, just on a little message thread. Tim has said too much, way too much, and he has no idea how the fuck he let himself be so god damn _stupid_. 

  

\-- 

  

Mark is sitting on the couch with Chilipepper, watching a documentary on space, when Tim gets home. Tim puts his gun away and then comes to sit next to Mark in the living room. It takes Tim longer than he would like to sink into the couch, still favouring his right side. Tim pulls the bottle of Ibuprofen from his pocket, pops two into his mouth and swallows them dry before leaning into Mark's side. Mark still has tremors in his hands, and Tim can see the way they tremble as he strokes Chilipepper's fur. 

"This isn't going to work, anymore." Tim tells him, and Mark sighs. 

"I know." Mark smiles sadly. 

"You can't just do NA anymore. You need to go to rehab, and you need to stay there." Tim reaches over and takes Mark's hand. As soon as Tim's fingers lace through his, Mark stops shaking. 

"I don't want to do that, Guts. I don't know if I can handle it." Mark turns to look Tim in the eye, and Tim doesn't see anything but fear. 

"It's a place just for veterans. They can help you with your PTSD too, and you'll be able to see your doctor, they'll still take care of your leg. There is nothing to be afraid of." Tim soothes. 

"I'm afraid it won't make a difference. I'll just let you down again." Mark leans even more into Tim, so that they're pressed together from shoulder to knee. 

"You've never let me down, Scarponi. You keep letting yourself down. I just hate seeing you hurt, babe." Tim rests his forehead against Mark's shoulder, breathes in the familiar scent of him. 

"I can't be away from you for that long, Guts. I'll die." Mark says, resting his chin on the top of Tim's head. 

"I'll visit you every day. When you're ready to come home, you'll come back to live here. Everything will be okay, I promise." Tim tells him. 

"Okay." Mark says after a beat. "Okay, Guts, I'll do it, for you. If you do something for me." 

"What?" Tim sighs, figuring Mark is just trying to change the subject. 

"I get help, so do you. You need to talk to someone about Wish Wash." Mark says, and Tim tenses up and pulls away from the man. 

"No." Tim snaps, giving Mark the dirtiest look his face can muster. Tim knows it's pretty dirty. 

"You need to. You won't even talk to me about him, but it's been eating you up. You think I don't know? Your one big problem, the worst one? It's him." Mark reaches out to touch Tim but he flinches away. "Guts, please. Even if you just call Milkovich, okay?" 

"I'm not calling Milkovich. I haven't talked to him in years, I'm just supposed to call him up and ask him to be my therapist for an hour?" Tim growls low in his throat. He doesn't talk about Wish Wash, doesn't even let himself _think_ about Wish Wash. All for the same reason he never stayed in contact with Milkovich. He just _can't_. 

"Yes. He's the only one who knows right? About Wish Wash? Talk to him. I get my shit sorted out, you get yours." Mark tells him, and Tim knows he has no choice but to agree. He'll send Mark to rehab, and when the man asks, he'll lie and say he called Milkovich. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim's phone ringing wakes him from his nap, and he looks over to see Raylan Givens picture staring back at him. His clock is telling him it's 1846, and Tim figures Raylan is still at work. His hand is a bit sluggish as he reaches for the phone, and he's pretty sure his greeting sounds sleep jumbled as hell. 

"Boyd Crowder burned Lyman Berger's house to the ground." Raylan says, and he sounds positively giddy about it. 

"With Berger inside?" Tim asks hopefully. 

"No, nobody was inside. and we don't exactly have proof it was Boyd, but it most certainly was." Raylan let's out a sound that is half amusement half annoyance. 

"So really all he succeeded in doing is making this turf war ten times worse." Tim settles himself back into his bed, letting his phone rest itself against his ear so he can lay his good arm across his stomach. His right arm is lying awkwardly at his side, his shoulder propped up on an extra pillow to keep his SC joint in a comfortable position. 

"Boyd never has been one to do anything by half." Raylan tells him, his voice sounding a little far away as Tim's phone tries to slip away from his face. 

"You too are such soul mates, Raylan." Tim jokes. 

"Tim, if Boyd is my soul mate, I'm even more screwed than I thought." Raylan uses his _I-know-exactly-how-cute-I-am-right-now_ voice, and Tim smiles. Raylan is in a good mood again, a turn around from the last conversation they'd had back at the office. Tim feels something like warmth spread out under his chest at the thought. 

"You can't fight it Raylan. You're gonna to have to marry Boyd, there is no other option besides an eternity as a single man." Tim tells him, and Raylan lets out a sound like a laugh. Tim has always liked the sound of Raylan's laugh. Really the sound of his voice at all. 

"So my choice is spend the rest of my life chained to Boyd Crowder, or spend the rest of my life with the freedom to fuck whoever I want?" Raylan pitches his voice down a little bit, and Tim instantly regrets starting this line of conversation. He knows it's a really terrible idea for him to be lie in bed in nothing but his boxers, and listen to Raylan Givens talk about sex. 

"Right, I forgot you're a cowboy Casanova. Single life isn't exactly lonely for you." Tim says. The hand he has resting on his stomach suddenly feels heavy. 

"Poor Tim. I can't remember the last time I saw you with an after-sex glow on your face." Raylan is joking, Tim can tell by his voice, but Tim's body doesn't seem to understand that. He wonders how Raylan would read it if he just hung up on him. 

"I don't have a glow." Tim says, wants to punch himself when his voice comes out pinched in a way he knows Raylan will pick up on. Hopefully he just thinks Tim is annoyed. He may have lied to Boyd Crowder about jacking off in the courthouse bathroom, but he hadn't been lying when he'd told him it had been a long time since he'd seen any attention, even from himself. He really is pent up. 

"You do, though. After a night with a woman you might as well have her sign your forehead, it'd be less obvious." Raylan says, and Tim can't help but laugh. Raylan will probably just assume Tim is laughing at his stupid joke, but he's just laughing because as much as Raylan tries to get under Tim's skin all the time, he still doesn't know _shit_. 

"If I had my forehead signed after I have sex, I'd never face a clean face." Tim jokes. They both know it's a lie, a big one. Raylan hums in response, and Tim's hand twitches against his stomach. 

"Well if you're getting laid but not glowing, the sex must just not be that good." Raylan says it like he's contemplating a math problem. "You need to start having better sex." Raylan tells him, and Tim has to close his eyes, think about something hideous, and give himself a second before he trusts that when he talks, his voice won't betray what Raylan just did to him by saying that. 

"I am perfectly capable of rating my own quality of sex." Tim says, silently congratulates himself for not sounding like he's halfway to a semi listening to Raylan's voice over the phone. 

"Only people who are good at sex know when they're having good sex." Raylan tells him, and Tim is about to respond when Raylan adds, "You're a good fuck, aren't you, Tim?" and Tim's mouth stops working. It's stuck halfway open, while the rest of his body thrums with energy. The hand he has on his stomach curls into a fist, and he feels his skin tingle and twitch at the contact. Raylan was using a voice Tim had never heard before, again, and it annoys Tim as much as it turns him on. It takes him far too long to choke out an answer. 

"Why don't you ask Jimmy Tolan." is what he finally says. He coughs after he says it, hopes that if Raylan hears anything in his voice he'll just think it's a symptom of his fucked up throat. 

"That's still not funny." Raylan sounds stern again. 

"You were the one concerned I wasn't getting laid. What's so wrong about Boy Band Jimmy?" Tim jokes. 

"Why do you have to make jokes like that?" is how Raylan replies, and Tim laughs. 

"Because I know how uncomfortable they make you and that is my goal in life, Raylan." Tim tells him, and Raylan just sighs and hangs up on him. 

  

MONDAY III 

  

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0426]** : boyd crowder was possibly involved in a hit and run early this morning 

 **Outgoing [0427]** : You run him off the road? 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0427]** : looks like it was lyman berger. i hate to say it but you might have been right about boyd being useful to us. 

 **Outgoing [0428]** : I will be sure to gloat when I see you in the office. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim is sitting on the toilet when Mark walks into the bathroom with a look of determination on his face. Tim takes a moment to notice that Mark had been sleeping in his old PT gear that fits extremely loose around the shoulders now. 

"Someone just broke in through the front door." Mark says, his voice quiet and smooth, as calm as it had been years ago. Tim would take time to wonder how the hell Mark is _calm_ if he wasn't busy feeling his own panic spike through him. 

"Lock the door to my room." Tim tells Mark, going through the motions of cleaning himself up quickly. He shuts the lid to the toilet quietly and strains his ears, but he can't hear anything other than his own breathing and the lock sliding into place as Mark does as he's told. 

"I didn't get a look at them, but they were quiet, they knew what they were doing." Mark says, stepping up into Tim's space and helping him pull his boxers up. Tim wouldn't have asked for the help, but they both knew he couldn't get them up very smoothly with one hand. 

"Can you squat? If not you need to lay down." Tim whispers.  Mark just frowns, before dropping into a squat at Tim's side. His knee gives a loud popping crunch, and there is a sick creaking sound that Tim thinks comes from pressure being put on the pins along his shin bone. Mark reaches out a hand to help steady him as he drops down next to him, but Tim still feels a pull along his chest and shoulder that makes him bite down on the inside of his lip. They're in front of the large vanity sink, which could protect them well enough from gunfire through the wall, but there is no place in the bathroom to keep them from sight if someone bursts through the door. Tim shifts his body so that he's between Mark and the door to his own room. Tim has a moment of fear for Chilipepper, who he'd left curled up under his blankets. He just hopes whoever has broken in won't hurt an innocent little cat. 

"Where is the bathroom gun?" Mark whispers, reaching behind himself to open the cabinet and feel around under the sink. 

"Bathroom gun?" Tim asks, wondering if Mark only seems so calm because he's lost his mind. 

"You keep a gun in every room, where do you keep the one in here?" Mark looks at Tim like he's stupid. 

"I don't keep a gun in the fucking shitter, Scarponi!" Tim whispers angrily, but then Mark is holding up a hand, and Tim goes silent. He hears the same thing Mark does, the sound of boot-falls in the hallway. Whoever is out there isn't even trying to be quiet. It takes Tim a second, but eventually he picks out the sound of another pair of feet, being dragged along slowly.  Two people, probably men by the length of the stride, one injured and being dragged along. 

"We need weapons." Mark breaths the words directly into Tim's ear, leaning in to press himself along Tim's back. 

"There aren't any in here." Tim whispers back, turning to he's saying it into the side of Mark's face, somewhere near his cheek. It's only then that he can feel Mark shaking. 

"Razors?" Mark asks, his voice going even lower as they hear the door that leads from the hallway into Tim's bedroom swing open. Tim left the hinge squeaky for a reason. 

"We don't have enough time to break it open and get the blade" Tim leans back on the balls of his feet, pressing his good shoulder against Mark's chest. He'll be slow to move in his state, but being low will give him advantage if they’re attacked. It's something he and Mark have done once before, back in Iraq. Mark will push forward his weight just as Tim goes to spring, and Mark's body will act like a piston, propelling Tim forward harder into the attacker's legs, taking them down cleaner. It will hurt them both now, Mark with his leg, and Tim with his chest. They don't have any other choice. 

"We won't win without a weapon." Mark's voice breaks, and Tim suddenly finds his hand being gripped, hard. Tim wants to say something back, but suddenly the door handle is being jiggled. Mark tenses up behind him, and his nails bite into Tim's skin, painful where Mark's pinky catches the small burn scars that litter the back of his hand. 

"Tim?" someone calls through the door, and while Mark tenses even further, Tim can't help the strangled laugh that escapes him. 

  

\-- 

  

"What happened?" Tim asks, even though he knows he's only going to get the most abridged version possible. 

"We got ran off the road." Jimmy says, and Tim just nods. Tim has noticed that there is fresh blood around Jimmy's nose, and he feels bad for the kid. Getting hit in an already broken nose must smart like a son of a bitch. Tim's own broken nose still hurts him enough as it is. He's also pretty certain Jimmy hasn't taken time to even take stock of his own injuries yet. 

"Scarponi, go make some coffee." Tim calls over his shoulder, and he sees Jimmy relax. Tim moves to stand in front of Jimmy as Mark stomps into the kitchen. Boyd Crowder is currently lying unconscious in Tim's bed with Chilipepper curled up on his chest to keep him company, while Jimmy stands impatiently in the living room, waiting for him to wake up. Tim knew he had to call Raylan, but he wanted to give Jimmy the chance to talk first. 

"He told me to go somewhere safe, I just," Jimmy says, his hand reaching out, hovering awkwardly over Tim's shoulder. Tim leans up a little, and Jimmy takes the hint, drops his hand on Tim's uninjured shoulder, grounding himself with the contact. He sags a little, and Tim wonders if it's just from relief, or if it's the pain finally kicking in.  Tim mirrors Jimmy's action, reaching up and squeezing the man's bicep. 

"You hurting? You look like you got the shit kicked out of you. Again." Tim smirks, and Jimmy lets out a small laugh. 

"I tried to protect him." is all Jimmy says, and Tim takes that as a yes. 

"Sit your ass down, let me get the blood off you." Tim pushes Jimmy down into the couch, and Tim gives his arm one last squeeze before leaving him. 

Mark gives Tim a pointed look when he steps into the kitchen to pull the first aid kit from the top of the fridge. Tim just makes a small hand gesture that they'd invented years ago that means "don't fucking start with me" and Mark huffs in response, but stares dutifully at the coffee pot. Tim makes his way back to Jimmy at a slow pace, watching the kid as he approaches. Jimmy looks like he's been through the ringer, but he's sitting perfectly still, his eyes locked on the hallway leading to Tim's bedroom, like he's just waiting for Boyd to burst through it. Tim doesn't think it'd surprise him if he did, making a miraculous recovery and coming up swinging. Jimmy is interesting to Tim, and he keeps finding himself surprised by the kid. They knew next to nothing about his background, besides the fact that he was an orphan. He just seemed to come out of nowhere when Boyd picked him up, and Tim wondered just who he was. He was always so calm, or at least pretended to be, with whatever Boyd threw at him. Tim wasn't sure if Jimmy actually worshiped the ground Boyd walked on, or if this was just a job to him. 

"I think it broke in a whole new place." Jimmy says, gesturing to his face when Tim steps up to him. 

"You already reset it?" Tim asks, and Jimmy nods, looks up at him gratefully when Tim takes the seat next to him, popping open the med kit and undoing an alcohol wipe to clean his face with. 

"You sure you don't want me to do that?" Mark calls from the kitchen. "I was always better at med shit than you." 

"Bullshit, you were always the one getting fucking hurt." Tim says back, keeping his voice slow and neutral so he doesn't start to laugh. It doesn't seem appropriate. He doesn't even know why he hasn't called Raylan yet, really. Maybe it's repayment for Jimmy cleaning up both him and Mark. Tim suddenly remembers that he still has Jimmy's shirt sitting in his hamper, and that Jimmy took Tim's home with him. Damn, if Raylan knew about that he might take his jokes about screwing Jimmy a little serious. Tim smiles loosely to himself, wondering how it was that his life had come to this, being friendly with some of the worst criminals he's ever met. 

"You," Jimmy starts to ask Tim something, but cuts off with a hiss when Tim presses the alcohol wipe to his nose. Tim isn't pressing as gently as he should, and Jimmy tries to pull away. If he could use both his hands he'd hold the kid's jaw to keep him still, but he has to settle for giving him a stern look to keep him in place. 

"Talking will take your mind off the pain." Tim tells him, and Jimmy huffs in his face. 

"I seen how you deal with pain, Deputy. You don't." Jimmy winces again when Tim touches his nose again, gentler this time. 

"You were in the Army, right?" Jimmy asks, his voice muffled by Tim's hand. 

"Rangers." Tim uses his pinky finger to push the wipe up Jimmy's nostril and the kid makes a sound of annoyance when he does. 

"I tried to join but they wouldn't take me." Jimmy's voice turns into a whine when Tim pushes his finger into the other nostril, and it starts bleeding anew. Tim curses under his breath, fumbling for a piece of gauze to catch the blood before it drips into Jimmy's mouth. 

"Why not? Too short?" Tim asks him distractedly, pulling his injured arm out of the sling so he can use it to grab Jimmy by the chin. It shoots pain through his chest and shoulder, but it makes Jimmy sit perfectly still again so Tim can use his good hand to wipe at the fresh blood on the kid's face. 

"We're the same height." Jimmy says, his jaw clenched together under Tim's fingers. 

"Yeah, yeah." Tim says, wiping as gently as he can at Jimmy's lips. Tim has a fleeting thought that he should have kissed Jimmy anyway, back in his room. Jimmy had started that whole thing, and Tim could have played it off as just the morphine and nothing else. 

"Too crazy, I guess. They didn't tell me what it was that threw up a flag, but I didn't pass the psych eval." Jimmy says, and Tim feels his jaw relax in his hand, so he lets go. He eases his arm back into it's sling gently, not letting himself wince when his chest flares with pain again. 

"I find that hard to believe." Tim says. "They let Boyd in." he smiles, wipes the cloth along Jimmy's chin. Jimmy just furrows his brows, looks back at Tim with an expression of slight hurt and annoyance. 

"You don't really know me. You don't know the things I've done, the things I've enjoyed doing." Jimmy whispers, his words vibrating against Tim's palm. 

"I've probably enjoyed a lot worse." Tim whispers back, and he sees Mark let out a silent laugh from the kitchen, clearly still listening in. He doesn't know what it is about Jimmy that he likes so much, but he finds himself inexplicably drawn to the kid. 

"I doubt that, you're one of the good guys." Jimmy says. There isn't any more blood on Jimmy's face, but Tim finds himself still rubbing his thumb against the kid's mouth and chin. 

"No such thing as good and bad in a war zone. Just a bunch of assholes killing each other." Tim says, looking up to meet the Jimmy's eyes. He's not quite sure what he sees there, but whatever it is prompts him to say, "I once shot a man from two-thousand meters, in front of his family, while I was getting a blowjob." 

"Jesus fucking christ." Jimmy whispers, even softer than before. His lips part around Tim's thumb, and Tim finally pulls his hand from the kid's face. Jimmy looks like he's going to say something else, but then the coffee machine beeps. 

"The hell you have to break and enter our abode so early for, anyway?" Mark asks as he starts pouring coffee into two mugs and one glass cup, since Tim doesn't own a third mug. 

"Well excuse us for not planning our own assault around your schedule." Jimmy groans, letting his head fall back against the couch, now that Tim's done with him. "Besides, I recall getting woke up at asscrack and spending a whole damn night chasing your high ass round town and getting a broken nose for my trouble, so shut the hell up." 

"Fair enough." Mark says, handing Jimmy the glass cup of coffee, which he'd filled almost all the way to the top.  Mark eyes the lack of distance between Tim and Jimmy for a moment before moving to sit in the armchair across from them. When Jimmy takes a sip of his coffee and let's his eyes fall shut, Mark waggles his eyebrows at Tim, smirking at the spot where Tim has his naked knee pressed against Jimmy's dirty jeans. Tim is suddenly very aware of the fact that he was still in the boxers he slept in. 

"Shit." Tim mutters to himself, before grabbing his phone from the table. Time to call Raylan.


	8. A little bit of Raylan, all night long.

STILL MONDAY III 

  

The door shuts behind the paramedics, and Raylan spins on Tim with fury in his eyes. 

"I ought'a shoot you" Raylan snarls, and Tim just raises an eyebrows, leaning a little further back into Mark. 

"Don't fucking threaten him." Mark snaps, just like Tim knew he would. Tim let's a smirk grace his lips, and he sees Raylan glance down at where Mark's arm is braced around Tim, pressing into his ribs, ready to pull him out from Raylan's reach if he has to. 

"I'm not threatening, I'm just pissed. You do realize how bad this looks for you, right?" Raylan asks, gesturing to the direction of Tim's room, even though Boyd and Jimmy are both gone. Raylan had called for an ambulance, and Jimmy had climbed into the back with his boss, sparing Tim nothing but a small smile. 

"I think it looks like two fugitives broke into my house and bled all over my carpet." Tim says. He's letting Mark take most his weight at this point. He hasn't had any pain killers yet today, and his chest is causing him so much pain that he is getting close to the point where it will start to show on his face. He just hopes Raylan leaves before then. 

"Right, and how are you going to explain how they knew where you lived? Our office doesn't even have that information on file." Raylan says, and Tim furrows his brow. He's sure there is an answer for that besides the truth. Telling Raylan that he had let Jimmy spend the night here would make it all look even worse. Fuck, Raylan might finally actually think Tim was sleeping with the guy.  

"I led them here. I didn't know Jimmy worked for someone Tim was investigating, and he came and got me from a dealer and told me he was supposed to take me home. I didn't know any better." Mark says, while Tim is still stuck trying to come up with a lie. 

"Scarponi wasn't in great shape after I got hurt, just like I told you." Tim tells Raylan, who just scowls at the both of them harder. 

"Art is going to get a fucking ulcer." Raylan sighs. 

"Well hey, on the bright side, we didn't have to try and kill anybody with bic razors." Mark whispers into the side of Tim's neck, and Tim let's out a huff of laughter. 

  

\-- 

  

The look on Art's face makes Tim wonder if he really is about to develop an ulcer. Tim had sat quietly on the couch as Raylan relayed to Art the events of the morning, while AUSA Vasquez sat on the corner of Art's desk with an expression of disbelief. They'd asked for Tim's version of the story, and Tim had given it, complete with Mark's lie. Tim trusted that Jimmy would be smart enough to not talk at all, let alone give the Marshal's any information that could get Tim in trouble. He felt something unfamiliar twist in his gut, and he knew he felt guilty. It made him dirty, didn't it? Canoodling, Rachel's word, with criminals, lying to the Chief, spending half the morning thinking about kissing Jimmy on his bloody mouth. It was all wrong, and it made Tim feel suddenly sick to his stomach. 

"Excuse me" Tim all but choked out, pushing himself off the couch too quickly, sending pain stabbing through his chest and shoulder. Tim stumbles, nearly crashing into Raylan on his way out. He does bounce off the doorframe, sharpening the pain in his chest. It's still dull though, compared to the throbbing in his head. He knows he's going to throw up, and the idea terrifies him. He knows he's going to tear his stitches, dislocate his SC joint all over again. It's going to hurt, and Tim already feel tears starting to sting at his eyes. He's pretty sure he hears Raylan calling his name as he hits the bathroom door with his left shoulder, trying to keep the pain to a minimum. It still hurts, but right now everything hurts. 

Tim must black out for a moment, because the next thing he's aware of is kneeling in front of the toilet with Raylan's hand on his shoulder. 

"Please just tell me you're not really sleeping with Jimmy." Raylan asks his voice soft but stern, a tone Tim isn't used to. 

"I'm not." Tim chokes out, leaning his forehead against the cold toilet lid. 

"Do you want to be?" Raylan asks, and his voice in gentle, gentler than Tim has ever heard it. It's out of place, so unlike Raylan, it makes Tim feel weak. He focuses on the feeling of Raylan's strong hand on his shoulder, and he tries not to let himself start crying. He wants to lie, wants to tell Raylan no. Hell, he wishes that _no_ were the truth. 

"Jimmy isn't gay." is all that Tim says. He knows exactly what it means, and he knows Raylan will too. It's the truth, the _yes_ Tim has been trying to ignore. More than that, it's everything Tim has ever lied about, ever hidden. 

  

\-- 

  

 Tim sits in the car for so long that Raylan finally just turns it off. They're sitting in Tim's driveway, and Tim is still staring at the window he'd seen Mark peek out of a few minutes ago. 

"Which is it?" Raylan asks suddenly, and Tim just scowls, doesn't even turn to look at the man. "That has you more upset," Raylan continues. "getting suspended, or me knowing you're gay?"  

"Getting suspended." Tim lies. 

  

  

\-- 

  

"I'm not going." Mark says, crossing his arms and staring at Tim with a sharpness in his eyes. 

"God damn it, Scarponi." Tim growls. 

"Going where?" Raylan asks at the same time, stepping around Tim to lean on the back of the couch. 

"Rehab. Guts told me he wants me to go and I said I would only if he talked to someone about Wish Wash. And he hasn't, so I'm not going." Mark said, stepping back to lean next to Raylan, giving the man a smile. Raylan smiles back, and Tim thinks it might be the worst thing to ever happen to him. 

"What is Wish Wash?" Raylan asks Mark, who starts to open his mouth to answer. 

"One god damn word, Scarponi, and I will break your good leg." Tim warns, stepping up into Mark's space to drive his point home. 

"No, this is perfect. Tell Cowboy, here." Mark nods his head toward Raylan, and Raylan nods. 

"Sure, sure, tell me. I don't know what the sweet hell is going on, but I have a fine pair of ears on me." Raylan says. 

"Why would I tell him shit?" Tim snaps at Mark, who just smiles wide. 

"Because he's very handsome and I know you like and trust him and I like him a hell of a lot better than your criminal friends," Mark ticks off each point by raising a finger, and he raised his middle finger right into Tim's face as he said, "and if you don't, I'm not going to rehab."  

"That sounds like you're playing dirty, there." Raylan tells Mark. 

"Naw. If he really doesn't want to tell you, he'll just let go of the rehab thing. But I think he wants to tell you, he's been secretly dying to tell somebody. You see, the only guy who knows besides me is this guy Milkovich, and he was the one who—" Mark starts, but Tim cuts him off by slapping a hand onto the top of his head, shoving his chin down into his chest. 

"You're an asshole. You're also lucky, because Raylan figured out all on his lonesome that I'm gay so I can skip the big coming out speech." Tim says, watching the way Mark's eyes widen and shoot to Raylan. "You also have a point that I do trust Raylan, but only so far as to keep his mouth shut. I also trust him not to get emotional," Tim turns his eyes to Raylan, speaking mostly to him now. "I trust him not to probe, and not to ever speak of anything I tell him again. I trust him to pretend I ain't said shit, and I trust him to just sit quietly and stare at me while I talk." 

"That defeats the purpose of telling him." Mark grumbles. 

"I can do that." Raylan says over him. 

"Fine then." Tim growls. "Scarponi, go to your god damn room. Raylan, sit over there and keep quiet." Tim waves Mark towards his room with his good arm, and then pushes Raylan in the direction of the arm chair across the room. Tim used the few seconds it takes him to move around the couch to breathe deeply and calm himself. Once he sits down, he'll open his mouth, and everything he's kept buried inside for almost ten years will spill out of him. He hates it, and it scares him, but he has no choice. 

Tim tells Raylan the story. 

  

MONDAY, 2004    

 

“I’m in love with you.” Tim said, not taking his eyes off the men hosing down the Humvees.  

“You tryin’a’ get us discha'h'ged, Specialist?” Wish Wash drawled, his Staten Island accent even thicker than normal due to exhaustion. Tim felt exhausted too, knew that all the men did. Tim had no idea how many men they’d just lost, but he knew that everybody was thinking the same thing. They were all thinking _how the fuck did this happen_?   

“Ain’t nobody listening to us, asshole.” Tim told him. He licked his lips and tasted blood. He knew it wasn’t his own, he could remember all too clearly the feeling of wet heat splashing across his face.   

“We lost Captain Thompson. Puts me in cha'h’ge ah’ this company fah’ now. They lookin’ at me.” Wish Wash told him. Tim finally pulled his eyes away from the men washing the vehicles, looked down at Wish Wash’s hands where they were holding his weapon in a grip that Tim could tell was too tight.   

“So I should just talk to you like you’re my commanding officer?” Tim asked, tightening his grip on his own rifle, feeling his palm slide a little from the sweat. They’d lost their designated marksman and Tim had been told to take over since he was the best sharp shooter they had. At least that’s what Wish Wash had screamed over comms, and Tim hadn’t had the time to preen at the praise in the moment, but now that he thought about it, it made him feel damn good.   

“You always should, Guts.” Wish Wash said.  His admonition was softened by the use of the nickname he'd given Tim. Even though he gave everyone in the platoon a nickname, and Guts was just a play on Tim's last name it still felt personal. 

“I’m in love with you, Lieutenant Kavanagh, sir.” Tim said again, and Wish Wash sighed.  

“Shut‘cha’ mouth right now. We just lost a lot of good fuckin’ men.” Wish Wash gave it as an order, and Tim had no choice but to take it as one. Tim knew Wish Wash would pick this up later. They would sleep next to each other on the ground, and Wish Wash would tell him he loves him too, would apologize for not saying it earlier, and they would both fall asleep to the sound of distant shelling, wishing they could touch but knowing that won’t happen for a while. It was agonizing, being in love with a man you almost never got to so much as even fucking _look at_.    

 

TUESDAY, 2004   

 

“The Jarheads ah’ three days behind us. They gonna’ get fuckin’ slaughta’ed goin’ through there.” Wish Wash hissed as he stepped up next to Tim.  

“If they don’t they’re going to make us Rangers look like a bunch of pussies.” Tim said, tensing when he felt Wish Wash’s hand rest on his shoulder for a second. It slid off just as quickly, nothing more than a friendly tap between soldiers. They were standing behind a Humvee, out of sight, but they knew there was no such thing as privacy in the middle of the day like this.  

“I have my way, you’s gon’ be a snipah’ when you get yah’ next combat deployment.” Wish Wash told him, and Tim looked up at him in surprise.  

“Sir?” he asked, and Wish Wash smiled down at him.  

“You gon’ make a damn good snipah’, Guts.” Wish Wash said. He looked over his shoulder, smiled at something in the distance that Tim couldn’t see. When he turned back he reached up and, for just a moment, pressed his thumb to Tim’s lips.  

“I’m only twenty.” Tim whispered, like he thought Wish Wash didn’t know that. His mouth tingled where Wish Wash had touched him. Tim wanted nothing more than to kiss him.  

“Yah’ gonna’ be a fuckin’ young snipah’, but yah’ gonna make me proud.” Wish Wash told him, and Tim didn’t think he’d ever loved the man more.    

 

WEDNESDAY, 2004    

 

Wish Wash kissed him, and it only served to make Tim feel even worse. Their teeth clicked together, and sent pain shooting through Tim’s mouth. Wish Wash tasted like blood and dirt, and Tim could feel how tightly wound the man was. Private Milkovich was still crouched next to them, and Tim could feel the kid tense up where his knee was digging into Tim’s thigh.  

“Go!” Wish Wash screamed at them, and they moved. Tim rolled from cover with Milkovich’s knee still pressed into him, and they got to their feet together. Tim could hear the rounds hitting the ground mere inches from him as he started to run. He almost imagined he could feel them snapping passed his boot laces. He felt a stinging in his side and wondered if he had gotten hit without noticing, or if his stomach was just clenching at the lingering feeling of Wish Wash’s teeth against his.  

“Incoming!” Milkovich yelled, and Tim turned just as the car he was running passed exploded. For a second his world was reduced to blinding light, and the sounds of flames trying to drown out the screaming of men in the distance. Tim was knocked to the side, and he slammed into Milkovich, forcing them both to the ground. Tim threw his arms up to protect the younger man as they went down. Milkovich was tiny, smaller than even Tim, who was barely five seven. Milkovich folded up under Tim’s arms as they hit the ground, but he wrapped his own arm around the back of Tim’s neck, protecting him in kind. Tim felt flames lick at the backs of his hands, where they would have blown right into Milkovich’s face otherwise.  

“Get to cover.” Tim yelled as he moved to stand. He grabbed Milkovich’s hand to pull him up, and he flinched when the man’s fingers dug into the burnt flesh there. He wasn’t a really sniper and Milkovich certainly wasn’t a spotter, but Wish Wash had told them to act like that’s what they were. Milkovich was their machine gunner, had just happened to climb out of the Humvee with Tim when Wish Wash had come looking for him. Tim had a feeling that this was going to be how he died, sent to snipe with a teenager.  

“We need to get to high ground, we need to take out whoever is sending those god damn mortar rounds!” Milkovich yelled over his shoulder. Tim didn’t respond, just kept running behind the man.   

 

\--    

 

“You fucking the Lieutenant?” Milkovich asked him. They were lying next to each other on the top of a building that kept threatening to crumble under them. The men below them were shouting to each other, but the gunfire had stopped five minutes ago.  

“You’ve been sleeping within earshot of us for months. You tell me.” Tim said, didn’t take his eyes off the horizon. He was waiting to hear Wish Wash’s voice on the comms, telling him to come back.  

“Men have a way of finding privacy. I’ve jerked off once a week without anybody noticing, I’m sure you two could be getting it on without anybody hearing.” Milkovich said it like he couldn’t actually care less.  

“Shut the fuck up, Private.” Tim ordered.  

“Pulling rank? Not sure there is actually that big a rank distinction between us, dumbass.” Milkovich laughed. “Whatever. I’ve known about him for a while, though.”  

“Excuse me?” Tim asked, risking a glance at Milkovich for a second. The guy still had his baby fat, cheeks sitting full under his dark gray eyes. He was the youngest Ranger in the entire Regiment, and Tim couldn’t help but feel a bit of awe for the kid. Tim knew that the kid’s dad was a General, but he also knew he had merits all of his own.  

“I had a panic attack our first week on the ground. No real reason, just seeing the shit for the first time.” Milkovich shrugged. “Kavanaugh pulled me aside, calmed me down quietly. I know most of the guys don’t take me seriously, he was helping me not letting them see me like that. He told me he was gay, shocked me into calming down. I guess he wanted to show me he trusts me.”  

“Bullshit.” Tim grumbled, ducking to look through the scope just so he had something to do.  

“Oh? You tell me why he told me, then.” Milkovich snorted a laugh. “Maybe he’s trying to get in my pants. I mean hey if I was into dudes, maybe I’d let him. He’s got those abs, you know?” Milkovich whistled low, and Tim frowned. He knew exactly what Milkovich was talking about. The first time he’d seen Wish Wash with his shirt off he’d bit his own tongue.  

“Keep talking about him like that and I’m going to cut your tongue out, Private.” Tim growled.  

“I fucking knew it. He’s your god damn boyfriend, right? I’m making you jealous?” Milkovich asked. The answer was _yes,_ but it wasn’t like Tim was going to say so.  

“I told you to shut the fuck up.” Tim said.  

“Fine. Just cause I asked don’t mean you gotta tell.” Milkovich rolled over onto his back to look up at the sky and shrugged again. “But you should tell your boyfriend he shouldn’t go sucking your face for half a minute in front of someone if you don’t want them asking.”    

 

\--   

 

It was First Sergeant Alexander who eventually called them back. Tim learned that the stinging he’d felt in his side was from shrapnel. It was only a flesh wound, but it was dirty with sand and sweat and the medic cleaned it for him with rough hands. Milkovich had a dislocated pinky, and he didn’t seem to remember how he’d got it. The burns on Tim’s hands were worse than he’d thought, and he’d seen Milkovich give him a grateful nod when he saw the damage. Better Tim’s hand than Milkovich’s face.  

“Specialist Gutterson.” came Wish Wash’s voice from behind Tim, and he had to fight his body not to react in any way that the other men wouldn’t. He turned his head slowly to look at Wish Wash as he and Alexander stepped into the medical tent. He had to sit still so the medic could wrap tape around his hands, so he could only see them from the corner of his eye. He saw Wish Wash’s eyes flicker quickly across his shirtless back, but he knew it was just to check him for injuries. The wet bandage covering the cut on his side made the injury look worse than it was.  

“Sir.” Tim said, smiling up at Wish Wash when the man came to stand at his side.  

“You ah’ now the actin’ snipah’ of this company for the remaindah’ of the tour.” Wish Wash said, and Tim could feel the surprise roll off the men sitting around him.  

“Sir, I think,” Tim started, but Wish Wash cut him off.  

“Yah’ killed nearly a dozen of those fuckahs’ today.” Wish Wash told him. Tim knew that because he’d kept count. He wasn’t sure how Wish Wash knew, though, unless he’d talked to Milkovich first. “This company has lost a lot of men, but I like the chances of not losing any more with you and Private Milkovich makin’ nests.”  

“You get knocked on your head, Wish Wash? They’re a couple of fucking kids with no real sniper training.” Alexander asked, frowning at Tim.  

“Guts is the best shot I seen in a long time and if not fah’ him and Milkovich we’d still be in the middle of  battle right now. I have given my ordah’ and if you argue with me again I’ll shoot'cha mah’self.” Wish Wash said, before stomping away. 

   

THURSDAY, 2004    

 

“Gay marriage is legal in British Columbia now.” Wish Wash whispered, and Tim laughed. They were sitting next to each other, leaning against the side of a boulder at 0423 local time. Wish Wash had his hand on Tim’s thigh, and Tim had his resting on Wish Wash’s lower back. They would have enough time to move if anybody approached, so they were letting themselves enjoy the feel of each other. It was the first time in months Tim had gotten to touch his boyfriend, and it felt incredible.  

“How forward thinking of the Canadians.” Tim said, turning to smile at Wish Wash. The sun was threatening it’s rise, and Wish Wash looked beautiful. He _was_ beautiful, with his high cheekbones and seemingly endless freckles. Right then, the light was making his eyes seem darker, harsher as they rested on Tim.  It made Tim’s heart ache with how badly he loved this man.  

“When we get home we should take a trip to Canada.” Wish Wash said, leaning closer to Tim, seeming to search his face for something.  

“You want to go on vacation with me?” Tim asked, leaning forward in kind, so his forehead rested against Wish Wash’s.  

“Nah’. I wanna’ marry you.” Wish Was told him. Tim huffed out a laugh, but he knew Wish Wash was being serious. They’d never even been on a date, but there they were sitting in fatigues that smelled like piss and death, and Wish Wash was asking Tim to marry him.  

“Just don’t tell me that you’re gonna make me wait for our wedding for sex?” Tim said, and this time Wish Wash laughed.  

“I love you, Tim. You could make a man go AWOL” Wish Wash whispered, reaching out with his free hand to cup Tim’s jaw. This was getting risky. They were too close, touching too intimately. If somebody approached now, they might not have time to pull apart.  

“I love you too, Weishawn, but you’re just saying that because now you’re thinking about sex” Tim said, and slid his hand lower on Wish Wash’s back, pushing his fingertips under his waistband. If somebody came looking for them, they would be so screwed. Tim knew this, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.  

“I’m always thinkin’ ‘bout’ sex.” Wish Wash said, and then he was kissing Tim again. It was slow and hard, and like nothing they had ever shared before. Wish Wash’s fingernails scratched the side of Tim’s face as he pressed closer to him.  

“The answer is yes, by the way.” Tim said into Wish Wash’s mouth.  

“Huh?” Wish Wash bit Tim’s lower lip, like he wanted to punish him for talking when Wish Wash wanted to be kissing.  

“I’ll marry you, as soon as we can.” Tim said, and Wish Wash pulled back to look Tim in the eye. He looked surprised, but he was also smiling wider than Tim had ever seen. “Not after this tour, obviously. One day, when we’re both retired, bitter veterans. We’ll go to Canada and we’ll get married. So yes, Arthur Kavanagh, I will marry you.” Tim smiled, and Wish Wash kissed him again.  

“Gon’ marry you so fuckin’ good.” Wish Wash said into his mouth, and Tim fell in love with him all over.   

 

\--  

  

Tim sat next to Milkovich in the back of the Humvee, and started to sing. It didn’t take long for the rest of the men in the vehicle to join him in his rendition of _Everybody_ , letting half the convoy know that Backstreet was back, alright.  

“You’re in too good a mood for a man who just killed a dozen people.” Milkovich told him with a smile, and Tim just laughed.  

“I took out a dozen Republican Guard pieces of shit, Milkovich. I am on top of the fucking world!” Tim yelled, and the driver, Apple Bottom, laughed from the front seat.  

“You got more kills than half these fucking Rangers got in their whole career in ten fucking minutes, Guts. You’re gonna be a fucking legend.” Apple Bottom told him, and Tim beamed. He wasn't even thinking about his career though, too focused on how good it felt to know he was going to marry the love of his life. 

 

\--   

 

“You really are too fucking happy. You get your dick sucked or some shit?” Milkovich asked him later that night, as they were sitting in the sand together.  

“I fucking wish.” Tim said, taking a bite of whatever he had in his hand. He hadn’t bothered reading the label on the MRE, but it tasted vaguely like ketchup so he was assuming it was supposed to be meatloaf.  

“You and the Lieutenant ever want to sneak off, I’ll cover for you.” Milkovich told him.  

“He can’t sneak off anywhere, he has to lead this company until we meet up with Captain O’Neil.” Tim sighed. He knew Milkovich had no problem keeping their secret, and he was damn grateful to have the man at his side.  

“Well fine. After we meet up with Captain O’Neil I will cover for you guys so you can get some.” Milkovich told him, and Tim laughed.  

“You’re a good kid, Private.” Tim said.    

 

FRIDAY, 2004

 

“Guts and Milkovich, take care ah’ this.” Wish Wash ordered, and Tim just nodded before moving around the Humvee and laying down in the middle of the road. Milkovich settled next to him, and everyone was silent as they looked into the distance.  

“On scope. Three targets, one armed. No other weapons in sight.” Milkovich said, his voice steady and harsh in a way Tim was coming to appreciate in its calmness. “Direction three-two-eight, distance thirteen-hundred. Wind moving from north to south, three-quarters value. “  

On Wish Wash's order, Tim fired, and the armed man took a bullet to the nose. The two unarmed men ran in opposite directions, and Tim missed his first shot at the man heading north-east. Milkovich directed him how to adjust, Tim fired again, and the bullet hit the man in the side of the head. The last man has gotten far enough away that Tim thought he was going to miss again. He didn’t.  

“You were right, Wish Wash. I’ll be fucking damned.” Alexander said when Tim and Milkovich stood. Wish Wash gave Tim a look that Tim imagined he would be seeing a lot of from now on. He looked like he wanted to kiss Tim right there, in front of all his men. Tim would probably let him.  

“I’m always right.” Wish Wash said. “You did good, Guts. You too, Two Percent.”  

“Two Percent! I had ten bucks down on a milk joke, I fucking win!” Apple Bottom laughed from his seat inside the Humvee, and Milkovich beamed.  

“About damn time you gave me my name, sir.” Milkovich said, and Wish Wash laughed before turning and walking away.  

“Still haven’t fucking given me one.” Alexander huffed, following Wish Wash down the road.  

“Maybe Alexandah’ is yah’ nickname. Because you’s so damn Great.” Wish Wash told him, and everyone laughed. Tim watched his fiance’s back heading down the road, and he realized he’d never felt happier in his entire life.    

 

\--    

 

The Marines caught up to them at 1526 and with them came Captain O’Neil to take command of the company. The officers disappeared into a tent and Tim stood by the edge of their camp and watched as the Marines drove on.  

“O’Neil might change it so you’re not the designated sniper.” Milkovich said. He shoved chewing tobacco under his lip, and Tim cringed. He hadn’t seen the kid chew before, wondered if he was stressing out about what had happened in the last few days.  

“I’m not that concerned. If he does, he does.” Tim told him honestly. If things went the way Wish Wash had talked about, Tim would be a sniper by his next tour. Maybe he could figure out a way to bring Milkovich with him. He would ask the kid about it when they were on their way home.  

“You’re a fucking weird guy, Guts.” Milkovich told him, spitting into the dirt.  

“No more than you, Two Percent.” Tim said, and they both laughed.   

 

\--    

 

“Captain O’Neil isn’t gon’ wanna’ talk to me anytime soon.” Wish Wash said when he came up behind Tim and Milkovich at the edge of the camp three hours later.  

“Okay.” Tim said, narrowing his eyes at the man.  

“He gon’ talk to the otha’ men first, take care ah’ some shit. He shouldn’ need me again for a few hou’ahs’. Told me to rest.” Wish Wash looked at Tim with an expression that told him nothing.  

“Okay. He’s probably right, you’ve had a pretty hectic few days.” Tim told him. Wish Wash’s expression turned amused.  

“O’Niel isn’t Thompson. I don’t have to be alert every second like with that jackass. I can take time to mah’self for the first time in this fucking war.” Wish Wash said, and it finally clicked for Tim.  

“Like I said, I’ll cover for you.” Milkovich smiled.  

“Damn right you will, Two Percent.” Wish Wash ordered.    

 

\--

 

Tim didn’t try to keep track of how long he lasted after Wish Wash wrapped his hand around him for the first time, but he knew it wasn’t very long. He didn’t even care though, not when Wish Wash was whispering encouragement in his ear and coming with a soft whine seconds after him. Wish Wash bit Tim's shoulder to stay quiet, and Tim told himself he’d feel his teeth for the rest of his life. 

“Fuck, I love you, Tim.” Wish Wash whispered into Tim's neck. Tim was straddling Wish Wash’s lap on the ground inside the hooch, their cocks still pressed together between them. Wish Wash had his arms wrapped around Tim's waist, holding him close, kissing the side of his neck. 

“I love you too, Arthur.” Tim said, running his fingers through Wish Wash’s short red hair. Tim didn’t tell Wish Wash that it had been his first time, that nobody had ever touched him before. Tim smiled into Wish Wash’s hair, and thought to himself that nobody else ever would. 

 

SATURDAY, 2004    

 

Tim and Wish Wash crouched next to each other by the enemy tank and Wish Wash leaned his arm on the Mortar next to him.  

“That is one fucked up scrap book you’re making, Apple Bottom!” Milkovich called, and Tim laughed.  

“We have to memorialize the American victory!” Apple Bottom calls. “Now stop fucking scowling, Lieutenant.”  

“Guts just shot and killed five of those terrorist fucks, you should look ecstatic.” Milkovich said, and Tim felt his smile go wider. “He only missed one shot! He’s a fucking legend!” Milkovich screamed into the sky. “I love you, man. I love your god damned guts, Guts!”  

“There you go!” Apple Bottom said when Wish Wash finally smiled too, and took the picture. Tim stood from his crouch, and had to fight not to reach for Wish Wash’s waist as he did. Tim never thought he’d wish he could go home, but ever since Wish Wash had asked him to marry him, he’d wanted nothing more. He wanted to just be _alone_ with him. To hold his hand, to sleep curled up with him, to kiss him gently and slowly whith morning breath on their tongues. He wanted everything.  

“Thank you Corporal, now go take a pict’cha of Dipstick and Horse Puncher wrestlin’ in the mud over there.” Wish Wash waved Apple Bottom off, and the man actually skipped away.  

“Jesus christ, the _ass_ on that man.” Milkovich mutters from behind Tim, and all three of them laugh.   

 

SUNDAY, 2004    

 

The wind carried the smell of wet sand over them, and Tim decided it was one of his favorite scents in the world. Milkovich lay next to him in the grass, and they listened to the distant sounds of bombing. The Marines were being attacked, and Wish Wash had told Tim and Milkovich to get as close as they could and try to get eyes. They could make out the flashes and the smoke, but nothing else.  

“Were you two a thing last time?” Milkovich asked suddenly.  

“The fuck are you on about?” Tim responded, trying to focus on what he thought looked like the shape of a vehicle moving on the horizon.  

“You and him. You were both in the invasion last year, right?” Milkovich said.  

“Oh. Yeah, I suppose. We had something, I guess. About three months before we went home we kissed for the first time. Never talked about it, really. Got separated state side. We got here this time and it just, I don’t know. We just felt it.” Tim didn’t take his focus off the movement on the horizon, so he wasn’t really even sure of his own words. He couldn’t tell if the shape was moving toward them or not.  

“So you’ve been together for like, over a year basically? Cute. You guys,” Milkovich started, but Tim silenced him.  

“What does that look like to you?” Tim asked, and Milkovich was silent for a few moments as he looked.  

“That looks like a Republican Guard convoy heading our way.” Milkovich said, and Tim realized Milkovich wasn’t looking in the same direction as him. Milkovich screamed over his shoulder, and it was only a second later that the scout saw the same thing and shouted too. Tim’s comms buzzed to life with Wish Wash’s voice just as the camp exploded behind him.    

 

\--    

 

Tim was running, and he was fully aware that there was no cover in sight. He knew he was going to have to stop soon, lay down in the middle of the sand, and leave himself exposed. For now he kept running, trying in vain to ignore the explosions around him.  

“How many fucking fire fights can we get into in a fucking week?” Milkovich screamed from behind Tim.  

“Welcome to the Rangers, Two Percent!” Tim screamed back. Tim knew if he turned around he’d have to see Milkovich’s arm hanging uselessly at his side, the lower forearm nothing but a bloody mess dangling by a thread with no hand attached.  

“I’m going to help you take _all_ those fucks with me before I let myself bleed to death.” Milkovich yelled, and Tim, for some reason, laughed.  

“We gotta lay down on that hill up ahead.” Tim told him.  

“That’s not a fucking hill, it’s a bump! We’re gonna be sitting ducks! I can’t get both my arms blown off and still be useful as a spotter, Guts!” Milkovich yelled back.  

“Don’t bitch at me about it, Private!” Tim kept running, stumbling when something hits the sand only a few paces to his right. He heard Milkovich let out a curse behind him, and he almost lost his footing. Milkovich slammed into his back and let out a shout of pain. Tim reached back and steadied him, his hand slipping in the kid's exposed muscle, and they both ducked when something passed too close to their heads for comfort. They didn’t stop running, and Tim just kept telling himself he wasn’t going to let this kid get killed.  

“Guts!” Somebody screamed his name, and Tim turned towards the sound. He saw Wish Wash running away from them in the direction of Tim’s ten o’clock with Alexander at his side. Wish Wash pointed to an abandoned Stryker that was parked off in the distance. Tim knew if they made it to it, he and Milkovich would have the cover they needed. He also knew that to get to it, they’d have to cross the heaviest fire. He made the decision based on the desperation he saw on Wish Wash’s face.  

“To the Stryker!” Tim yelled back to Milkovich.  

“Your boyfriend is going to get us fucking killed!” Milkovich yelled back, but when Tim veered to the left, he knew Milkovich followed him.  

“Fiance!” Tim told him, and Milkovich let out a shout of annoyance.  

“Who the fuck gets engaged in a war zone, you’re both fucking insane! Gay men can’t even get married you fucking idiot!” Milkovich’s voice raises in pitch, and Tim laughs again. The man is more annoyed at Tim for thinking about marriage than he is about being led into the direct line of fire.  

“We can in Canada.” Tim yells. He saw Wish Wash start to slow to a stop when Tim fell into line with the direction he’s headed. Tim waved him forward, but Wish Wash didn’t listen. He wanted Tim to catch up. Tim ran faster.  

“You’re not Canadian!” Milkovich yelled. Alexander turned around and yelled to Wish Wash to hurry up, asking him what the fuck he was doing. Tim knew it wasn’t worth it for Wish Wash to stop like this.  

“Get to the fucking Stryker, Wish Wash! I’m right behind you.” Tim screamed, and waved again.  

“I’m,” Wish Wash started to scream, but his voice was cut off by the sound of a mortar hitting.  

Tim had heard and read all kinds of people talking about watching things happen in slow motion. He had always thought it was the truth, that when you saw the worst things in life, you watched them happen at the slowest pace possible. That your world would grow smaller until that was all you could see.  

He knew they were wrong when he watched that mortar fall from the sky. One second Wish Wash was turned around, moving too slow, shouting something back at Tim. The next second Tim was looking at a wall of sand as the mortar hit ground. The second after that he realized it wasn’t just sand he was seeing, but blood. Milkovich and Alexander both screamed, but Tim just felt his breath catch in his chest.  

“No.” he whispered, watching helplessly as the sand started to settle. Tim could see it all with horrific clarity, could see _e_ _verything_. Milkovich was saying something behind him, but Tim couldn’t hear him over the ringing in his ears. He felt his heart trying to beat out of his chest as he slid to a stop and dropped to his knees in the sand next to Wish Wash.  

“No, Gutterson, you can’t stop!” Alexander screamed, but Tim ignored him.  

“Wish Wash, please. Fuck, no.” Tim hovered his hands uselessly over Wish Wash’s waist. His body stopped there, ending in a trail of guts and blood.  

“Tim.” Wish Wash whispered, and Tim didn’t know how he even heard him over the rest of the sounds.  

“Guts, we have to go, we can’t sit here. Guts!” Milkovich had stopped behind Tim, was resting his one remaining hand on Tim’s shoulder.  

“Fuck you, no. I’m not leaving him.” Tim pulled his CAT tourniquet off his shoulder, moved to wrap it around Wish Wash’s waist. Milkovich screamed for a medic, rather than trying to get Tim to move again. Tim was aware that Alexander was doing the same, calling over comms that their Lieutenant was hit.  

“Go, Tim. Run.” Wish Wash whispered, coughing up blood.  

“There is no fucking way I'm leaving you, you idiot.” Tim shoved the tourniquet under Wish Wash’s body. Wish Wash screamed from the pain of Tim’s hands on him, and Tim nearly choked on his rising bile when his movement made more of Wish Wash’s guts slip from his body. “You’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay. You’ll get discharged and we’ll get married in Canada.” Tim said.  

“Can’t have sex, now.” Wish Wash whispered, and Tim let out a bark of laughter despite himself. It was only then that Tim realized he was weeping.  

“You’ll just have to get really good at blow jobs.” Tim told him.  

“Okay. For you, anything. I love you. God, I love you, Tim.” Wish Wash spat up more blood, and Tim moved to cradle his head in his lap. The world just kept exploding around them.  

“I love you, too. I love you so much.” Tim told him. Wish Wash tried to smile, and his eyes flickered shut. Milkovich dropped to his knees next to Tim, and Tim glanced up at him.

“I think I’m done for.” Milkovich said, his arm dripping blood into the sand, and Tim smiled sadly.  

“We all are.” Tim told him. When he looked back down, Wish Wash was dead.    

 

MONDAY II, 2004  

 

“You’ll receive the Distinguished Service Cross for this.” Captain O’Neil told him, and Tim just shook his head numbly. He doesn't even remember what he _did_. Doesn't remember walking through fire or taking anybody out. “Son, you did good. You saved your spotter's life, and probably this whole damn company.”  

Tim wanted to cry, he wanted to scream. His heart was broken, but he knew he couldn't act any more upset than any of the other men. He had to act like he lost his Lieutenant, not his fiance. Alexander had stood there and watched as Tim screamed, cradling Wish Wash’s body in his lap and falling apart. Tim could only hope he wouldn’t put together what he’d seen, that he wouldn’t understand what Tim had been feeling when he had to be forcibly pulled away from Wish Wash’s body.  

“Milkovich lost half his limbs. I didn’t fucking _save_ him. I didn’t save shit.” Tim snapped, and O’Neil just smiled sadly at him. Tim knew he was out of line, and if O’Neil was an asshole he could punish Tim for his attitude.  

“He’s alive.” O’Neil said, and Tim had to close his eyes so he could stop staring down at the bloody patch of ground that had, until a few minutes ago, been where they’d set Wish Wash’s body..  

“He was still a kid and now he’s a cripple. He was just trying to serve his country and now he’s lost everything because I made a stupid call and led him through enemy fire. I don’t deserve a medal, far from it.” Tim wasn’t even thinking about Milkovich that much, couldn’t bring himself to care about the kid when he’d just watched the love of his life die.  

“You led yourself through that fire, son. He chose to follow you because you’re a good soldier, and a good leader. The two of you took out half a god damn elite Guard and didn’t even stop when he lost his damn arm and leg. You’re both getting that Medal, and you both deserve it.” O’Neil clapped him on the shoulder and left the tent, leaving Tim alone for the first time.  

Then, finally, Tim sank to his knees, wrapped his arms around himself, and started to sob. 


	9. I do not like them, Sam I Am.

MARK'S LOST TRACK OF TIME

 

Sam is nice. Sam is really nice. He's too nice. He smiles at Mark and tells him he's safe, and Mark wants to run. Sam hasn't made the mistake of trying to touch Mark since the first day, when he'd patted Mark on the shoulder and Mark had taken him to the ground and tried to choke him. He just stares, and smiles, and Mark _hates_ him.

"Why don't we talk about your injury?" Sam asks, taps his finger on the edge of the plastic chair he's sitting in, a nervous twitch Mark has noticed happens when Sam is running out of patience. He runs out of it a lot with Mark.

"Hurts." Mark tells him. Mark feels a buzzing behind his eyes, getting stronger the longer he's away from Tim.

"How did it happen?" Sam asks, and the buzzing picks up intensity.

"Guts doesn't like to talk about it." Mark tells him.

"Tim isn't here." Sam says it like it's supposed to be soothing, but it makes Mark's chest feel tight.

"Guts doesn't like it." Mark doesn't understand why that's such a hard concept for Sam to understand.

"When Tim described you and your relationship to him, I got an idea of you. Seeing you now though, I don't see the man Tim sees. Do you think you're a different person when he's around?" Sam taps his finger, and Mark sees his eyes twitch to the picture Mark has on his nightstand. It's him and Tim during the war, and Mark is giving Tim a piggy back ride. They're both smiling, and Tim has his fingers buried in Mark's hair. That was the happiest time of Mark's life.

"No." Mark says. _When I'm with him is the only time I'm a person at all_ , he keeps to himself.

 

HE DOESN'T KNOW HOW MUCH TIME HAS PAST, BUT IT'S DARK OUTSIDE NOW

 

Mark sits in the center of his bed with his bad leg out in front of him, and his good leg pulled up so he can rest his chin on his knee. The doctor's had wanted to take his leg when he'd first been taken to a hospital, but Mark had been optimistic. He'd thought he would be okay, he'd get better. He figured even if he had a limp and it hurt, he'd be okay. He wishes now that he'd let them cut it off. He'd tried to do it himself once. In the blissful cloud that oxy took him to, Mark had taken a hand saw to his leg just above the knee. He'd nearly hit bone when Tim burst into his apartment and found Mark sitting in a growing pool of his own blood. Mark had woken up the next morning with Tim in his hospital bed, curled around him with tears dried on his sleeping face. That was when Mark decided to try. He decided he didn't care how much pain he was in, he couldn't let Tim be in pain too.

 

HE'S PRETTY SURE IT'S THE NEXT DAY BECAUSE HE'S EATING BREAKFAST

 

Mark stares down at his bowl of cereal in hatred. Tim liked big breakfasts, but he almost never had time for them anymore. When they'd first gotten home, before Tim got The Job and he and Mark were living in a one bedroom apartment together, Mark cooked for him every morning. He wasn't a good cook back then, but he scrambled eggs and sliced fruit and tried to hide how many times he'd nicked his fingers from Tim. He'd set the plate of food in front of Tim and Tim would smile at him. It's all he wanted, Tim smiling.

"How are you feeling this morning, Sergeant Scarponi?" Sam asks, sliding into the seat beside Mark. This is his morning routine, making the rounds and bugging all the vets as they tried to eat.

"Like I want to be left alone." Mark grumbles around a spoonful of Fruit Loops.

"Come on, talk to me." Sam tells him, smiling that obnoxious smile of his. "Everybody has to talk in the morning, friendly little chat. Everybody else already did it."

"Whup-tee-du." Mark mumbles. He's lost his appetite

"Tim is coming to visit today." Sam says, and Mark refuses to let the man see how excited that makes him. He hadn't known that, he doesn't know what day it is anyway. Tim will come, and Mark can make him see how bad this place is, and then Tim can take him home.

 

IT'S BEEN HOURS, HE'D BEEN GROWING IMPATIENT

 

Tim's arm is still in a sling, but the bandages are gone, the skin knit closed now. He smiles at Mark, and Mark feels life flood back into his body. Mark gets to his feet to greet him, and is still struggling to get his leg to hold his weight when Tim's arm is wrapping around his neck.

"Hey, babe." Tim whispers into Mark's neck.

"Hey." Mark says, wrapping his arms so tightly around Tim's stomach that he's probably hurting him a little. _I need you, I miss you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you_ , he doesn't say.

 

HE DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE TIME PASSING SINCE TIM LEFT

 

Mark's world is pain. His body feels like it's on fire. There are hands on him, and he screams because he knows they aren't Tim's. Tim left, Tim left him again. Mark feels his insides trying to tear themselves apart, and he thinks Tim would know how to fix this. A hand touches his face and he pulls away, smashing the back of his head against something hard and cold that makes him see stars. Straps hold down his arms, but he kicks, hits something solid that grunts. There are voices but none of them are Tim. Mark feels the tears burning holes in his cheeks, and he knows if Tim were there they'd be wiped away. Mark screams as a hand holds his arm tight. There is a voice, and a pinch, and then everything goes black.

 

A DREAM OF A MEMORY

 

Mark was watching Tim the way most people watch their favorite movie.

"I hate the way this fucking place smells." Tim said, chomping down violently on the toothpick he had between his teeth. It was a habit he'd picked up from Mark himself. He complained about them splintering, said they hurt this teeth, but whenever Mark pulled one out, Tim held out his hand in expectation.

"It smells like every other part of this fucking country." Mark told him, turning away from him to look up at the sky. The stars here were the most breathtaking Mark had ever seen. Mark was in love with space. His goal had been a lot simpler before the war. He was going to become a Jumpmaster, and then an astronaut. They decided he wasn't very good at jumping out of planes though, so now he was here.

"No it does _not_." Tim mumbled it like he was disgusted by the very implication. "It smells like fucking pumpkins." As if Mark was supposed to know what pumpkins smelled like. It was just one of those things you expected from Tim. He knew what everything smelled like. Even people. Tim had once told Mark that the skin on the back of his neck smelled like heaven to him. Anybody else might have taken that some kind of way, but it just made Mark want to let Tim curl around his back and rest there forever.

"You want me to peep for a while?" Mark asked, but Tim just grunted, and didn't budge over for Mark to get to the scope. "You want to hear a story then? Cause I got a great one about you and Rateib."

"We ain't supposed to do that shit anymore." Tim said, and Mark laughed at him.

"They day you can't pull is the day we might as well shut down the Rangers completely." Mark told him. "Now, shut up and listen to my story."

 

WHEN HE WAKES UP, SOMEHOW, HE KNOWS IT'S THURSDAY

 

Mark wakes up to the familiar feeling of Tim's hands on his face. Tim is saying something, talking to somebody else. Mark just let's himself bask in the sound of his voice. He knows Tim can tell he's awake now, because he starts to rub his fingers lightly between Mark's eyes, soothing the headache Mark hadn't even noticed he had.

"I can only help him if he really wants it. And I can't let him stay here if he's going to act violently." Mark heard Sam say. He thought maybe he should get more violent. Make Tim take him home. He wanted to go home.

"I understand." Tim says, and Mark can hear that he sounds tired. There is the sound of something shuffling, something else being dragged across the floor, and then the door closing.

"You gonna take me home?" Mark asks, opening his eyes to look up at Tim. He flinches when he sees Tim's face though. His eyes are red, tired and wet. The bags under his eyes could carry a lot. He also looks angry, _really_ fucking angry.

"You are not coming home until you get better. Not this time. If you get your ass kicked out of this place I will throw you in a much less expensive much less accommodating detox facility. You can't bite your fucking doctors and you can't act like you don't need to be here. You need to be here, you _are_ a drug addict." Tim says it all very quickly, and very angrily.

Mark tells himself he will never give Tim a reason to cry again.

 

IT'S BEEN WEEKS

 

Sam smiles, and for the first time, it doesn't make Mark want to punch his teeth down his throat. Just maybe backhand him a _little._

"You've made a lot of progress, Sergeant." Sam tells him, and Mark shifts uncomfortably at the praise. "You've got a long way to go still, but we're finally getting somewhere."

“Sure.” Mark says. He knows what Sam means. Mark hasn’t had a violent episode since he bit Sam. Not that he remembers biting Sam, but the man had shown Mark a ring of teeth marks on his forearm a few days after and told him how much he didn’t appreciate being treated like a steak.

“Are we ready to talk about, Tim, yet?” Sam asks, and Mark flinched as if the man’s words had scalded him.

“We’re not going to do that.” Mark snaps. Sam sighs like this is the exact response he was expecting.

“Okay. I’ll tell you what, then.” Sam shifts forward, and pulls a notebook out from behind his back. “Write it down.” Sam hands the notebook over to Mark, who hesitates in taking it. “Everything about Tim, how you feel about him, why you feel that way. Write it down, get it out. When you’re ready, you can show it to me. For now it’ll just be for you.”

Mark takes the notebook. It’s small, bound in fake leather the color of sand, and the pages are thick, like someone was afraid of them being torn.

 

AN ENTRY IN A BOOK

 

The truth is that the idea of Guts getting a boyfriend used to terrify me. It’d be different if it was going to be a girl, because that’s a girl. But another man? A man he’ll love more than me? I don’t like it. When I realized Guts was gay I was sad. Sad that I wasn’t. Sad that I’d never be the most important man in his life. He wants Raylan. Or Jimmy. I think it's Raylan. And when I look at Raylan I know that if he gets Guts, he’ll keep him. He’ll keep him forever and ever and Guts will be all his. Guts won’t be mine. Guts will be happy and I will be dead. If I can’t have Guts, then there is no point. It’s just how it’s going to go. Sometimes I yearn for it. Yearn for the day Guts forgets about me and I can finally let go. I hold on because he needs me to. Because I will do everything for him, everything, even live. But one day he won’t need that. He won’t need me. He’ll love Raylan more than he loves me and I will finally be allowed to die.


	10. Now Mark, more than trouble.

SUNDAY VI 

 

"You're nervous about going back to work tomorrow." Mark says as he's moving one of his chess pieces across the board between them. 

"Three weeks in rehab and you're a psychiatrist?" Tim scoffs, moving the little horsey shape two spaces forward. Mark rolls his eyes, but Tim isn't sure if it's because of what he said or because of how bad he is at chess. 

"You don't want to see Raylan." Mark tells him as if Tim isn't fully aware of what he does and doesn't want. "You haven't spoken to him at all since you told him about Wish Wash, have you? Check mate, by the way." 

"Me and Raylan agreed to pretend like that conversation never happened, so I have nothing to worry about." Tim stares down at the chess board, wondering if Mark actually has a check mate or if he just wanted to stop playing. Tim can't tell, he doesn't even know which piece is supposed to be the king.  

"You do know that when I coerced you into talking to him it was so he could talk too? So you could have conversations and maybe move passed it." Mark says in his _why-do-I-try-with-_ _you_ voice. Mark leans back in the overstuffed arm chair he's sitting in, and Tim feels happiness shoot through him at the way Mark looks. He's gained a few pounds back into his face, and his eyes are sharp, clear, and most importantly, happy. Falcon Recovery Center for Veterans was costing Tim a pretty penny in co-payments, but it was worth it to see Mark making what Tim hoped would be lasting progress. It also helped that the recovery center had a dress code and air conditioning system that left Mark in a cardigan and slippers. Adorable.

"I got passed it enough. What should I talk about?" Tim said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He uses his right arm, and his shoulder pinches a small bit. Dr. Vives had told him that even though it was healed it would probably pinch like that for the rest of his life, so Tim was already growing used to it. 

"You can't stay in love with a ghost, Guts." Mark says sadly. 

"Bite me. Just because I still love him doesn't mean I can't fall in love again. I just haven't found someone else, yet." Tim tells him. 

"Okay, not my point. My point is, you need to suck it up and drive on. Talking about him shouldn't be painful. It shouldn't take threats to get you to say his god damn name." Mark says. 

"Fine, what do you want? You want me to reminisce about the good times? You want me to tell Raylan all about the wedding plans I'd thought up in my head? Huh, do you want me to tell you how I had plans and literally watched them bleed out between my fingers? You think he even wants to hear about this?" Tim snapped, and Mark recoiled. 

"Tim, you help me so much I just want to help you too." Mark says, lifting a hand towards Tim, even though there was still a table between them. 

"Help? I don't need your help. I was _alone_ when he died. I grieved alone, in a war zone. His body went back to his parents, I kept fighting a fucking war. I had to move on, I had to push forward because there was no other choice. I didn't get to kiss his face and lower him into the ground and find closure. I had to make it for myself. I had to forge it out of nothing. I had no choice but to build a wall around his memory so I didn't sit there and drown in it all by my god damn self." Tim says, standing up from his chair, his fists clenching at his side. 

"Tim," Mark starts, but Tim cuts him off. 

"I don't talk about him because his memory belongs to me. It's all I have left of him, all I will ever get. I'm not giving that away, I'm not going to hand the only thing I have left of him over to Raylan just because you feel like I should." Tim growls before turning and walking out of the center. 

  

MONDAY VII 

  

Mark's tendency to be completely right about everything was still Tim's least favorite thing about him. Tim takes one look at Raylan and feels like he's going to scream. 

"Things have been truly awful without you, Tim." Raylan says as Tim passes, though he doesn't look up from the file he has in his hands. 

"Anybody get shot?" Tim asks, hoping Raylan never looks up from his file. Tim isn't sure how it'll feel to have those eyes on him again. Last time he'd seen Raylan had been when the man left silently, a hand brushing gently against Tim's neck, after Tim told him about Wish Wash. Tim thinks if Raylan looks at him he might choke to death. 

"No, just stabbed." Raylan says, and to Tim's horror the man reaches down and tugs his shirt from his waistband. 

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me?" Tim snaps, retracing his steps back to Raylan's desk. It's only as his hand is burning from the feeling of Raylan's skin under his palm that he realizes he's doing something stupid.  

"You were on suspension, not vacation. You were not to be given any information." Raylan says, hissing a little when Tim pushes, applying pressure into the gauze that's taped to the man's stomach, just a few inches from his belly button. 

"You could have died." Tim says while trying to tell his hand to take itself of Raylan Givens' taunt stomach like a normal person would have done by now. 

"I'm sure they would have called you if I had." Raylan jokes, and Tim finally pries his hand away. 

"You still should have called me when you were in the god damn hospital." Tim grumbles, taking a step away from Raylan, ignoring the way his palm feels suddenly too cold. 

"I didn't think you'd want me to." Raylan says in his very familiar _I'm-trying-to-be-nice-but-we-both-know-I'm-not_ voice, and he's suddenly looking Tim in the eye for the first time. 

"Don't." Tim snaps, breaking Raylan gaze before it can even really settle, and stepping away completely. 

  

\-- 

  

 **Outgoing [1003]:** Did you know Raylan got attacked by one of Berger's men? 

 **Boy Band [1003]** : holy shit i thought you were dead where the fuck have you been? 

 **Outgoing [1003]** : On suspension because of you, so don't give me shit. Did you guys know? 

 **Boy Band [1004]** : i dont know i dont think boyd does either or he would have said something 

 **Boy Band [1004]** : are you okay? 

 **Boy Band [1004]** : if i got you in trouble im sorry i didnt know  

 **Boy Band [1005]** : back to ignoring me again? 

 **Boy Band [1006]** : when boyd was ignoring you you sent him a picture of your dick to get his attention now youve been ignoring us for three weeks talk about a double standard 

 **Boy Band [1007]** : coward 

 **Boy Band [1009]** : -Download Attatchment- 

 **Boy Band [1010]** : i know its not as pretty as yours but its thicker 

 **Boy Band [1011]** : fuck you dude 

 **Boy Band [1012]** : this is bullshit im coming to your house  

 **Outgoing [1012]** : Do not show up at my house.  

 **Boy Band [1013]** : ill do whatever i want 

 **Outgoing [1013]** : I'll arrest you if you show up at my house. 

 **Boy Band [1014]** : bring it on asshole 

 

\-- 

  

"This doesn't make sense." Tim says, flicking the file shut and pushing it towards the center of the conference table for someone else to look at. 

"What doesn't?" Art asks in his _I'm-very-tired-so-please-don't-annoy-me_ voice. Tim is pretty sure Art is trying his best not to show that he's still angry with Tim.  

"Lyman Berger. He's supposed to be some small time Harlan low life, so how the hell is he so capable? He put out a bounty on Raylan and it reached a couple of guys skilled enough to actually get the drop on him. When that didn't pan out he had some mercenaries try to kill us. Those guys were good, and they had weaponry way beyond what I'd expect from someone from Harlan. They were also smart enough to drag the body of the man I killed away so we have no idea who they even were. Now this? Having Raylan stabbed by a god damn hit man. Who the fuck hires an honest to god hit man anymore? Not to mention the damage he's caused to Boyd Crowder's operation. He's driven the man underground. Explain to me how someone who was just supposed to be brawn is so god damn smart and well connected?" Tim uses his hands as he talks, gesturing to nothing for no reason like he always does. It pulls at his right shoulder though, and Tim can see Raylan eyeing his bad arm with suspicion when Tim drops it to his side. 

"Tim's right." Raylan says, leaning back to look up at Art who is standing behind his chair. "Lyman Berger should not be this good. The biggest oddity of it is that we know it's him. We know without question, but we still don't have enough to bring him in." 

"Maybe he's not working alone." Art muses, pushing on the back of Raylan's chair to tip it back, which everyone knows Raylan hates. 

"You mean you think he has a boss." Raylan says. 

"Well goody. Now all we have to do is track down a crime boss." Tim smiles at Raylan. 

"One who has almost had us killed multiple times now." Raylan smiles back. 

"Sounds fun. It's good to be back." Tim says, and Art groans. 

  

\-- 

 

Tim isn't surprised when there is a knock on his door later that night. He also isn't surprised when he opens it to find Jimmy Tolan standing there. He's only marginally surprised when Jimmy grabs him by the front of his shirt and shoves him against the wall. 

"You know, my shoulder is still technically injured." Tim grunts, but he just lets Jimmy push on him. 

"You're either going to arrest me, or you're going to prove my point." Jimmy growls, twisting his fists into the fabric of Tim's shirt and making the collar scratch into the back of Tim's neck. 

"You should probably let go of me. I don't know if you noticed, but you're getting me hard." Tim tells Jimmy truthfully. 

"That it?" Jimmy asks as he takes a step back. "You want to fuck me? Will that get you to call me back, huh?" 

"Yes to the first, no to the second." Tim says, smiling when Jimmy flinches. 

"You've proven my point, by the way." Jimmy sighs, before turning and walking into Tim's living room. 

"I could still arrest you. Unless that was actually an offer, but hey, either way you could end up in handcuffs." Tim tells the kid as he follows him through the house. Chilipepper looks up from where he is sleeping on the back of the couch, hisses at Jimmy, and bolts into Tim's bedroom. 

"I'm not sleeping with you. I just ain't stupid, I know how you look at me." Jimmy drops himself down into Tim's couch, throwing one of his legs up on the back like he's presenting himself to Tim. 

"You're a little asshole." Tim tells him, not even bothering to pretend like he isn't looking at where Jimmy's legs are spread. 

"Aren't you into that?" Jimmy asks, and Tim just raises an eyebrow in response. "Whatever, anyway. My point is that you like me, a little more than friendly too, right? And you like Boyd, just like Raylan Givens does. You're both terrible at pretending otherwise. Boyd even considered you a friend for about five minutes until you blew us off." 

"I'm a federal Marshal, I can't be your god damn friend, Jimmy. Not you, _especially_ not Boyd." Tim says as he sits on the couch between Jimmy's spread legs. The kid raises his eyebrows at the position but he doesn't move. 

"Wasn't stopping you before." Jimmy says. 

"And then I got suspended for my association with you. I make that mistake again and I lose my job." Tim leans back against the couch, his head resting on Jimmy's calf. 

"Good. Then you could come work for us. I bet you'd have more fun." Jimmy smiles. 

"You know what? You're probably right. I would have fun, but that doesn't matter. I'm the good guy, remember? You said so yourself. I'm not a criminal." Tim smirks. "Besides, I have to take care of Scarponi. I can't do that if I'm dead or in jail." 

"Where is he anyway?" Jimmy asks, straining his head back to look at the hallway to the bedrooms. 

"Rehab." Tim says, and Jimmy laughs. "That funny?" 

"You must be lonely is all. I can keep you company tonight." Jimmy says, using the leg that isn't behind Tim's head to kick at Tim's knees. 

"I thought you said you weren't going to stick it in me?" Tim asks, smirking at the kid. 

"Me stick it in you? Me on top, huh. Well, wait now that changes the game. Hm, let me think on it a second. I mean, it ain't gay if I'm on top, right?" Jimmy puts his fingers on his chins and hums to pretend like he's deep in thought. 

"You can't stay here. I already told you, I can't risk my job just because you're cute." Tim sighs. 

"I think I'm cute enough to be worth it." Jimmy smirks. 

"Boy Band, you need to get it straight okay? I'm not swooning over you or some shit like that. I think you're probably the third hottest guy I've ever met in my life and I haven't gotten laid in a long time. Would I sleep with you? Yes, god yes. Would I ever fall for you? Not for a god damn second. You're a kid, and you're a criminal, and you're a god damn annoying, not to mention straight, hillbilly." Tim says. 

"Well now I'm just offended. Third hottest?" Jimmy scoffs. 

"You've met Raylan Givens, right?" Tim laughs. 

"It's too bad you're on the other side of the law from us." Jimmy says, suddenly serious.  

"I feel the same way about you." Tim agrees. 

  

TUESDAY VII 

  

Mark is asleep when Tim is let into his room, so Tim just climbs into the bed behind him. Mark startles awake, but he doesn't jump away in fear, and it makes Tim's heart swell with pride. 

"What time's it?" Mark asks, shifting around to face Tim. 

"Oh-three hundred-something." Tim tells him with a yawn. 

"They let you in at three in the morning?" Mark asks sleepily. 

"I'm a law enforcement officer I can do whatever I want." Tim tells him. 

"Of course." Mark huffs soft laughter into Tim's face, and his breath smells like mint and stale coffee. 

"You know, I forgot to smell things." Tim says, scooting forward to press his forehead against Mark's collarbone. 

"How did you forget? You smell every damn thing in the world." Mark whispers as he wraps his arms around Tim's neck and pulls him close. 

"I got shot, it distracted me." Tim says. "I miss you by the way." 

"I miss you too. I take it you've forgiven me for the other day?" Mark asks.  

"I'm not going to talk about him again, okay? Not again." Tim slides his arm around Mark's waist and presses his knees flush against the other man's. 

"Okay. Okay. Whatever is best for you. I just want you to be happier." Mark tells him. "On a more important note, please explain why you have an erection." 

"Don't get too excited. Jimmy got all up on me earlier and it just hasn't calmed down. It's been a while after all." Tim chuckles. 

"I thought you were supposed to be avoiding Jimmy." Mark yawns, already falling back asleep. 

"I was doing a great job of it. He has a really nice dick though. It breaks my heart, truly." Tim says, and Mark chokes on his inhale. 

"Fucking hell." Mark sputters. "Just how up on you are we talking?" 

"Mostly just a little wall pushing and leg spreading. I just happened to also see a picture of his very nice penis and I want to cry about how much I want it but can't have it." Tim sighs. 

"You are the gayest thing on the face of this earth." Mark tells him. 

"You're the one in bed with me." Tim retorts. 

"It's not like there is anybody else to snuggle with. I'm in rehab, Guts, I obviously need to be snuggled." Mark yawns again, so Tim just shuts up and let's them both drift to sleep. 

  

\-- 

  

"You've reached Deputy US Marshal Timothy Gutterson, he is currently drooling on my shoulder." Mark says, and the sound of his voice jerks Tim awake. 

"What the fuck?" Tim asks, using the back of his hand to wipe the drool off his chin before laying his head back on Mark's shoulder. At some point in the night Mark had rolled onto his back and Tim had followed, laying himself across Mark's chest. 

"Your butt was vibrating, and I was very worried that it wasn't going to turn out to be your phone so I am very glad that it was. Also, it's Raylan." Mark says, and then he's holding the phone against Tim's ear. 

"Raylan?" Tim mumbles into the receiver. 

"He worried about your vibrating butt because of personal experience?" Raylan chuckles. Tim can hear music playing faintly in the background and he assumes Raylan is still at his hotel room. 

"Unfortunately yes but in the end it's his fault for buying the thing for me in the first place." Tim says, and Mark makes a dismissive noise above him. 

"I'm oddly intrigued." Raylan says, his voice some pinched version of his _I'm-hiding-something_ voice, which Tim finds curious. "But on a more boring note, Jimmy Tolan is apparently down at the court house to give some sort of statement, but he'll only give it to me and you." 

"Shit. Fuck." Tim says. 

"Well look on the bright side." Raylan says cheerfully. 

"Which is?" Tim grumbles. 

"The three sexiest men in Kentucky are going to be in a room alone together and two of us like men. Should be fun." Raylan says, and then hangs up. 

It takes a few seconds for what Raylan said to sink in, but when it does, Tim sits up so fast he knees Mark in the groin. 

"Holy shit." Tim shouts over Mark's groan of pain. "Holy fucking shit!"


	11. Tim, let me be the one.

STILL TUESDAY VII 

 

"You sure Mark ain't your boyfriend?" Raylan asks from directly behind Tim, startling him. 

"He's straight." Tim says, hoping Raylan will pretend like he didn't notice Tim jump. Tim had just been standing, staring into the conference room where Jimmy is sitting with AUSA Vasquez. Jimmy was simply gazing at the man with a disturbing smile on his face and saying nothing. Tim couldn't hear what Vasquez was saying in response to the smile, but it didn't look very nice. 

"Well, his loss." Raylan says as he pushes past Tim and swings open the glass door Tim was staring at.  

"About damn time, Givens. You can deal with this little asshole." Vasquez huffs out before pushing past them. Tim just follows Raylan silently into the room, keeping his eyes on Jimmy. He wishes he could say something to Raylan, wishes he could just ask him what the hell he was talking about. 

"Hey, baby." Jimmy says when Tim steps up to the table. 

"Good morning, honey." Tim smiles. 

"Stop it." Raylan snaps, giving them both dirty looks. 

"I'm here to give you very important information, Givens, you could be a little nicer." Jimmy pouts, turning some truly impressive puppy-dog eyes at Raylan. 

"So, tell us what you're here to say, Jimmy." Tim coaxes, taking a seat across from Jimmy. Raylan stays standing, hovering at Tim's shoulder like a guard dog. 

"Did Boyd ever tell you about Colton?" Jimmy asks, and Tim shakes his head. He can sense Raylan tense up at the familiar way he and Jimmy are talking, but he decides he's going to pretend Raylan doesn't exist for a little while, before he goes crazy. 

"Colton, who?" Raylan snaps. 

"Colton, I don't know his last fucking name. Boyd brought him in right as this shit started to go down. He's making a mess though, and it's getting difficult for Boyd to clean up after him. He won't do anything about it though, because of some dumb brothers in arm crap." Jimmy tells them. 

"This Colton guy, he in the service?" Tim asks. 

"He was. He's a fucking barrel of possums though, the man is insane. And this is me talking." Jimmy winks at Tim, and Tim has to fight really hard not to be endeared. 

"None of this is important in any way." Raylan practically growls. 

"Calm down, asshole. Only reason I asked for you to be here is because I didn't want to get Tim in any more trouble by talking to him alone. You want me to say what I have to say or you want to keep interrupting me?" Jimmy scowls. 

"Tim is interrupting just as much as I am." Raylan says, and Tim knows he knows he's being ridiculous. Childish, even. 

"Tim is my fr-" Jimmy cuts himself off, adopts a slightly wide eyed look, before continuing. "Just let me talk, alright?" 

"Whatever." Raylan snaps, before finally settling into the chair next to Tim. He knocks his knee against Tim's, and it feels more forceful and significant than a knee bump should. 

"I think Colton has something to do with something bigger. He just showed up out of nowhere right when this crap with Berger started. You know Berger killed a cop right? Colton got here that same day, only he didn't meet up with Boyd right away. I just found out this morning, he was skulking around for days before meeting up with Boyd. Then he walks around like he owns everything. I don't trust him, and I think he's doing something not too right by Boyd." Jimmy talks fast, just staring at Tim and getting agitated as he speaks. 

"What exactly is it Boyd does, again?" Tim asks, smiling brightly. 

"He owns a bar, but you already knew that. He is a reputable and upstanding business man who doesn't deserve to be harassed by the likes of Lyman Berger." Jimmy says, and Raylan let's out a bark of laughter. 

"I figured you'd say that. So what does Colton have to do with me and Raylan?" Tim asks, and Raylan pushes their knees together again. Tim doesn't think Raylan is trying to get his attention though, isn't even sure if Raylan knows he's doing it. 

"I want to make a deal. I will give you all the information you need to arrest Colton and send him away as long as I get immunity for any involvement in any of his doings." Jimmy tells them, and Tim actually feels his legs twitch under the table he's so surprised. 

"You'd testify against a man who works for Boyd?" Tim asks, wincing when he hears his own voice laced with concern. 

"Colton isn't good for Boyd, but Boyd won't see it. He's doing crime he has no reason to be doing, and I think he's going behind Boyd's back and somehow escalating this thing with Berger for some reason. Boyd won't listen to me about him. I am hoping you will." 

  

\-- 

  

Colton Rhodes was, in Tim's humble opinion, a piece of shit. A former MP who was disciplined multiple times for being violent or unreasonable with soldiers he jailed, including Boyd Crowder himself, who Colton had punched in the mouth. He'd eventually been given a dishonorable discharge for shooting an Airborne Corporal over a baseball dispute. He'd dropped off the radar a bit, but had picked up an assault charge and evaded an arrest out in Maryland. The good news about that was that there was a warrant out for him. The bad news was that if Jimmy went back on his word about testifying, it wouldn't be enough to actually stick. All they had was a few month old witness report of Colton beating a man with a piece of firewood from an anonymous tip. If they brought him in and couldn't actually get him on something solid, he might walk away and realize what Jimmy had done. Tim knew it was stupid of him, but the felt like he'd do everything he could to protect Jimmy Tolan. 

  

\-- 

  

"Have you seen Raylan?" Tim asks Rachel, trying his best to sound like nothing was up. He knew he failed miserably by the look on Rachel's face. 

"Something happen with Tolan?" Rachel asks, eyeing Tim in that way she does that makes him feel incredibly insignificant. 

"No, Jimmy is actually going to prove very useful. Raylan just seems to have vanished into thin air while I went to get Colton Rhodes' file and now I need to talk to him." Tim feels himself start to trip on his words, and decides to walk away from Rachel's desk as quickly as possible. 

He doesn't have to search very long, and finds Raylan whispering to Winona in the hall in front of the elevators. He can't hear what they're talking about, but when Winona looks up and sees Tim, she throws her hands up in the air and makes a disgusted noise at Raylan. Tim tries not to read to much into it, just thinks about how pretty the blue nail polish Winona has on that day is. 

"Tim and I have work to do now, Winona." Raylan says in his _I'm-changing-the-subject-go-along-with-it-please_ voice. 

"I bet you do." Winona huffs at him before storming away. Her steps click on the tile floor, and Tim turns to watch her walk away. Gay as his may be, there has always been something sexy about an angry woman storming away in pumps. Especially if that woman is Winona Hawkins. Tim didn't think anybodies sexuality was safe from Winona Hawkins. 

"Do we actually have work to do?" Tim turns back to Raylan, and is slightly taken aback by the fact that Raylan seems to be watching Tim in a disturbingly similar way to how Tim was just watching Winona. 

"You tell me. Do we have a Colton Something-Or-Other to drop in on?" Raylan looks away from Tim a little too sharply as he hits the button on the elevator. Tim knows he's meant to follow Raylan either way, so he steps a little closer to the doors. 

"Colton Rhodes." Tim waves the file still in his hand. "He's kind of a jerk, and according to Boy Band we can probably find him loitering around Boyd's bar if we head over there. It might be best we go now, so we aren't actually there at the same time Jimmy is later. Might cause problems."  

"You don't fucking say." Raylan mutters under his breath as the elevator dings. Tim scowls at the comment, but just steps onto the elevator with Raylan. Somehow, he never noticed just how small the damn thing was until now. He's a good foot away from Raylan actually, but he feels like there is a wall of fire between them and the only way to put it out would be to either get as far away from Raylan as possible or take off all his clothes. 

"What's it's actual name, anyway?" Tim asks, hoping that talking will help dissipate the flames. He doesn't know why he thinks that, since he fucking hates talking to people. 

"What?" Raylan asks, his voice clipped and almost angry. 

"Boyd's bar. I know it's not actually called Boyd's Bar." Tim mutters, flipping aimlessly through Colton Rhodes file.  

"You tell me, he's your new best buddy." Raylan says. 

"Hey, you're the one who dug coal with him, asshole." Tim reminds him as the elevator comes to a stop. Raylan just gives him a dirty look before stepping through the doors and marching down the hall. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim doesn't think he's ever hated the drive to Harlan more than he does right now. His shoulder still bugs him too much to drive quite that far, so he's stuck in Raylan's passenger seat. He's squeezing his thumb so hard he feels like it's going to pop out of it's socket, and he can feel _something_ radiating off Raylan. 

"Okay, enough." Tim snaps, and Raylan actually jumps at the sound of his voice. 

"What?" Raylan asks, glancing over at Tim like he thinks Tim's about to hit him. 

"What did I do? We were fine yesterday, fine on the phone this morning. I mean, fuck you were _more_ than fine with me on the phone this morning. So what is it? Why are you pissed? Are you mad at me because you told me you're gay? Did you not mean to, or something?" Tim flings his hands as he talks and wraps his knuckles against the glass on accident. 

"I'm not gay, first of all. And no I didn't tell you I like men on accident, I ain't afraid of people knowing. Second of all," Raylan starts. 

"Third." Tim cuts him off. 

"What?" Raylan sighs. 

"Second thing was that you didn't say you like men on accident. So whatever you say next is third of all." Tim says, rubbing his knuckles against his thigh softly to try and sooth them. 

"Man shut the fuck up, I'm trying to make a point and you're being a little shit. Third of all, asshole, I have every right to be annoyed with your association with Jimmy Tolan." Raylan tells him. 

"Oh, fuck off. You have just as much association with Boyd Crowder as I do. Besides, do I have to remind you about Ava? Whose fucking fault is it Boyd's not in jail right now anyway? Want to talk about _association_!" Tim yells. It startles both of them, because Tim almost never yells. Raylan has only ever heard him yell when he was a high likelihood of dying. 

"That's not the same thing." Raylan says, his voice suddenly soft, like he's just given up being angry and resorted to being hurt. 

"Yeah, because you're Raylan God Damn Givens and you can do whatever you want, break all the rules, be a dick, go around the law, and it's all fine. I talk nicely to one damn criminal in front of you and I'm a piece of dirt." Tim yells even louder this time, and he knocks his knuckles against the glass again, but on purpose this time. 

"You want to sleep with him! You admitted that to me!" Raylan yells back, making a gesture with his arm that's so wide he almost hits Tim in the face. 

"That's your problem? I think Jimmy is hot? _You_ said he was one of the sexiest men in Kentucky! Are you fucking kidding me?" Tim gestures the same way Raylan did, only he _does_ hit Raylan in the mouth, and he does it on purpose. Raylan responds by pulling off the road and slamming on the breaks so hard Tim nearly smashes his face into the dashboard. 

"That doesn't mean I want to sleep with him. I was joking, Tim god damn it!" Raylan hits the heel of his hand against the steering wheel twice. Neither of them say anything more, just sit in their seats, both breathing heavy for a moment. Almost instantly they both calm down, and the anger is slowly sapped from the car. 

"You like men." Tim says softly, going back to squeezing his thumb. 

"And women. And, you know, whatever else. I like people, I don't care." Raylan says, reaching up to pull his hat from his head. He rests it in his lap and runs his fingers through his hair. It's getting a little too long around his ears, and Tim watches the way the strands brush against Raylan's jaw. 

"Okay. Who knows?" Tim asks, letting go of his thumb when he sees Raylan glance at his hand. 

"At work, Art and Rachel. Probably Vasquez, god knows he's a nosy little fucker. In my personal life, everybody, I guess. Most people I grew up with know, or at least suspect." Raylan tells him, and Tim is struck with jealousy at how _easy_ that seems to be for Raylan. 

"I can count the people who know I'm gay on my fingers." Tim says. 

"Yeah? Who then? What special group do I belong to?" Raylan smiles, and any remaining tension breaks between them. 

"You, Scarponi, some boy I kissed in high school, Private Milkovich, Jimmy and Boyd, and uh, you remember that MP from the VFW? Sykes?" 

"The guy you flirted with to get us in the place?" Raylan laughs. 

"I slept with him, so, I'd say he knows." Tim laughs too. 

"Damn. Wait, ain't you slept with anyone else?" Raylan seems to look shocked, and he glances down at Tim's lap for some reason. 

"Three other guys. They're both dead though so they don't count. And I mean, I slept with one of them a lot. Like, for three month, I was sleeping with him. Was sleeping with him when I first got this job. That's when Rachel started to give me shit about glowing." Tim grumbled. 

"You had a boyfriend for three months and nobody knew?" Raylan asks as he settles his hat back on his head. His hand blocks his face for a moment, so Tim almost misses the smirk he has on his face. 

"God no. He was married with like, two dozen kids or something. It was just sex. He didn't even have my phone number, or know my last name. I was just Tim, the guy he met at the hotel once a week." Tim admits. He feels strange about that, since not even Mark knows that David was married. 

"How did he die?" Raylan asks like he thinks Tim murdered the guy. Tim is both sad and amused to find he thinks that might be fair. 

"Work accident. He was a firefighter." Tim shrugs. 

"You are a man of many wonders, Tim Gutterson." Raylan smiled. Tim didn't say anything back, and Raylan pulled back onto the road. 

  

\-- 

  

"Well if it isn't my two favorite Federal Officers in the whole wide world!" Boyd Crowder is enveloping Tim in a hug before he could even process the man coming towards him.  

"Good afternoon, Bluegrass." Tim says into the side of Boyd's head, patting his back briefly. 

"Let go of him before I arrest you for assaulting an officer." Raylan warns, reaching out and pulling on the back of Tim's shirt a little too roughly to tug him away from Boyd. 

"Hey now, we're all friends here. Even if Guts has been avoiding me as of late. I do understand though, Jimmy filled me in on you getting into trouble after all that happened. I never did get to thank you for taking care of me, by the way." Boyd keeps talking, but Tim's interest is pulled to the man sitting at the bar. He has his back turned to them, but Tim recognizes Colton Rhodes. He's got desert boots on that match a pair still sitting in the back of Tim's closet, and the set of his shoulders tells Tim that he's aware of everything going on in the room. 

"Excuse me, boys." Tim pats Boyd and Raylan on their shoulders, and pretends to leave them to a private conversation. Raylan catches on and starts to ask Boyd about some bullshit while Tim goes up to the bar. 

"Hello, Ava." Tim greets the woman behind the bar, and she just raises an eyebrow at him. "I don't suppose you'd get me a tonic water?" 

"Why does he keep coming in here and harassing my man?" Ava asks, not even moving a muscle towards getting him a water. 

"Boyd is my friend, haven't you heard?" He smiles at here. 

" _That_ , I know. Which is why I said he, as in Raylan." Ava turns then, and grabs the bottle of tonic water from the shelf behind her. 

"Well, he get's jealous when he's not getting all the attention you know how it is." Tim smiles, accepting the cup from her when she hands it to him. 

"Nice tattoo." Colton speaks up from next to Tim. When Tim looks up at him, Colton gestures to the tattoo on Tim's wrist. "Marines?" 

"Rangers." Tim says, looking down at his tattoo. Sometimes he forgets he has the thing, other times looking at it makes him feel something knot up in his stomach. _One Shot, One Kill._  

"Where did you serve?" Colton asks, turning his body to face Tim's. Colton is a huge man, compared to Tim. Nearly twice as wide, and taller even sitting side by side. 

"Double winner. Sandbox for a while, Afghan for a little more. You?" Tim smiles, sips his drink like he hasn't already made up his mind that Colton is scum. 

"Same, with the Police Corps." Colton tells him. "Colton Rhodes." he says, and Tim has to force back a laugh. He'd almost forgotten he wasn't supposed to know that. 

"Tim Gutterson." He says, shaking the man's hand. 

"Nice to meet you, Tim. Any friend of Boyd's." Colton shakes his hand harder than necessary, and Tim finds himself hoping above all hope that Jimmy pulls through for them. 

  

WEDNESDAY VII 

  

"Chillipepper misses you." Tim says into the phone, petting the aforementioned cat gently so he doesn't wake him. 

"I miss him too." Mark says, and Tim just sighs into the receiver. "You want to tell me why you're calling me at one in the morning on the burner phone you smuggled into rehab for me?" Mark asks. 

"Raylan Givens does, in fact, like a good penis every now and then." Tim tells him. 

"What? When did you find this out?" Mark sounds instantly excited. 

"On the phone, when I kneed you in the balls." Tim says. Chillipepper wakes up and gives Tim a dirty look. Tim scratches behind his ears until he starts to purr. 

"You asshole, why didn't you tell me _then_." Mark huffs. 

"Because I was s _tressed_ , Scarponi, it was very unbalancing information." Tim says in mock indignation. 

"Well whatever. Will you suck his dick now? Cause I've got five bucks on you sucking his dick." Mark informs him. 

"What? Against fucking who?" Tim asks a little too loudly, and Chillipepper bites his hand to tell him to shut up. 

"Chilli. He doesn't think you'll go for it. I told that little furball you would, because why wouldn't you?" Mark laughs. 

"Because I work with him." Tim says. 

"You were going to marry your Commanding Officer." Mark scoffs. 

"Yeah, and look how that turned out." Tim practically whines, is annoyed at himself for it. 

"I still don't see what it has to do with getting dicked. You can work together and cross swords at the same time. Well, probably not _at the same time,_ you might startle the suspects." Mark says.  

"I don't think," Tim starts. 

"Suck his god damn dick before I do it for you out of pure fucking _spite!_ " Mark shouts into the receiver. 

Tim isn't sure he wants to find out if he's serious or not.


	12. Boyd, don't be afraid.

STILL WEDNESDAY VII

 

Chillipepper hates having his nails trimmed. So, Tim is kneeling in the floor with the tiny cat stuffed between his knees, trying to clip his tiny little claws while the cat screams and tries to wiggle away. 

"I can't wake up to needles in my thighs anymore, you little orange shit." Tim grumbles to the cat, who howls helplessly in response. 

"You killing the poor thing?" Raylan asks from where he is leaning against Tim's door frame. 

"Fuck off" Tim tells him. Raylan had shown up earlier than even Tim appreciated, handing him a paper cup of coffee and claiming they needed to go to Harlan. Tim had downed the too-sweet brew and gone back into his room to get dressed. He'd wanted to be quick, but Chilli had tried to climb his bare leg and Tim had lost his patience with the cat's claws. 

"We're gonna be late." Raylan says, sipping his coffee like he doesn't have a care in the world. 

"Go by your god damn self then, Raylan." Tim snaps, his tone making Chillipepper whine even louder. 

"I need you."is all Raylan says. Tim finally gets Chilli's last nail cut, and he releases the cat to sprint past Raylan and into the safety of Mark's bedroom. Tim tries to stop himself from raking his eyes up Raylan's body as he stands. He uses his right arm to push himself up from the floor, and it causes his shoulder to pop audibly. Pain shoots through Tim's chest, but he doesn't let Raylan see it. 

"Well if you really need me, then I need to put on some pants." Tim says, gesturing down to his boxers. 

"You were right, by the way." Raylan says as he does what Tim had just tried not to do, and eyes Tim's entire body, stopping somewhere around his thighs. "You have some killer legs." 

  

\-- 

  

Colton Rhodes hadn't gotten more likable over night. He was leaning against his truck when Raylan pulled up, and he smiled brightly at Tim as he stepped out of the car. Tim had seen that smile a thousand times before on Mark's face. It just made him sad on Mark, but on Colton Rhodes, it made him sick. The man was wearing sunglasses that covered his eyes, but Tim already knew what they look like under there. 

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?" Colton asks, like he's the god damn door man. 

"Oh I just gave Tim a ride so he could come and see his best friend." Raylan says, and a jolt of panic hits Tim in the spine. Talking to the man Jimmy is ratting on _about_ Jimmy is the stupidest thing Raylan could possibly do.  Tim knows that Raylan doesn't care about Jimmy's safety though, and it makes him want to punch the man in the back of his stupid hat. 

"Sorry?" Colton sounds like he might hurt himself if he tries too hard to figure that out. 

"Oh what, did nobody tell you? Oh well." Raylan tips his hat at Colton and then makes for the door. Tim doesn't try to follow him, because he knows exactly what Colton is going to do next. Raylan doesn't seem all that surprised either when the man steps into his path. 

"Boyd doesn't want any visitors right now." Colton says, smiles again. Tim just knows his eyes are burning with hatred, though. 

"Well now I hate to spoil the surprise, but Tim isn't Boyd's best friend." Raylan takes a small step towards Colton, which puts them nose to nose. "I am."  

  

\-- 

  

Boyd is in a meeting, his office door closed tightly with a man Tim had never seen standing in front of it. Jimmy is behind the bar, and Colton is trying his best to remove Raylan without doing the stupid thing of putting his hands on an officer. Tim just sidesteps the two men and passes, unnoticed by Colton, to stand with Jimmy.  

"I hope he punches Raylan. I really fucking hope he does." Jimmy says as Tim slips behind the bar.  

"Oh that would be beautiful." Tim smiles. Colton has started to scream at Raylan, and keeps adjusting his stance to block Raylan's view of Boyd's office door. Raylan just looks like he's trying to decide whether to laugh at Rhodes or arrest him for something. 

"You look much sexier with your chest intact by the way. I might reconsider my stance on sticking it in you." Jimmy leans in close, like he's going to kiss the side of Tim's neck. Tim can feel him smile, but the kid pulls away quickly. 

"Stop that now, you're gonna make me blush." Tim deadpans. He doesn't take his eyes off Colton's back though. He knows if the man _does_ punch Raylan, he'll probably just shoot him. It's been a while since he got to shoot anybody, and his fingers were starting to get itchy. He'd get in trouble if he actually killed the man, but he figured Colton only _really_ needed one kneecap. 

"Is it a good idea for you guys to be here?" Jimmy asks. The _at the same time as me_ is implied. It's only then that Tim realizes that Jimmy is scared. He's going against Boyd to try and protect the man, and he's risking his life to do it. Tim is well aware that if Boyd finds out what is going on, Jimmy will be dead. Boyd may like Jimmy, but he doesn't love him the way Jimmy loves Boyd. For a moment, Tim thinks about himself and Mark, and how maybe they're the same. 

"You're fine, Boy Band." Tim tries to smile but it feels wrong on his lips. Jimmy just purses his lips like he doesn't believe Tim.   

"God damn, Raylan!" Boyd throws the door to his office open and nearly crashes into his goon, who jumps away at the last second. He looks more cactus-y than ever. His eyes are wild, and Tim thinks part of his hair looks singed off. 

"Well hello, Boyd." Raylan tips his hat, but Tim can tell Boyd isn't charmed. 

"I do not appreciate you coming into my place of business unannounced so often, interrupting my customers and disrupting important business meetings." Boyd is using his _criminal-turned-preacher_ voice. Tim loves that voice, it gets him hard as a rock. 

"Tim just wanted to see Boyd Band. Your boy here caused the ruckus." Raylan smiled innocently, which didn't suite his face in the slightest. 

"Get out before I show Tim just how much," Colton starts to turn in Tim's direction, but Raylan stops him by fisting his hand in Colton's jacket collar. There is a beat where everyone just stared in shock, and Tim feels Jimmy tense at his side. Tim undid the snap holding in his gun, resting his hand around it. Jimmy must have seen him do it because he takes a step back so he is behind Tim, while pulling his own gun from the back of his pants and holding it at his side. Boyd just closes his office door behind himself and leans against it with a cold look in his eyes. 

"You so much as look at my partner and I will make sure you never see anything but the cold hard ground for the rest of your life." Raylan says it in a voice Tim thinkscould cut steel. Colton tries to speak but Raylan twisted his jacket tighter around his fist and cuts him off. "And if you threaten him like that again, you will find yourself _in_ the ground." 

Raylan lets go, but neither man takes a step back. They just stare at each other. Tim feels Jimmy raise his gun, but he doesn't point it at Raylan or Colton, which Tim appreciates. Tim finds himself, for the first time, curious about who was in Boyd's office, and what they thought about having the door shut on them. Tim leans back a fraction and presss his shoulder to Jimmy's, who twitches at the contact. Tim shakes his head, hoping Jimmy is paying attention. Tim is sure only a few seconds has passed, but he feels like he's been staring and Raylan and Colton squaring off for hours when Boyd finally speaks up. 

"Raylan. While I am sure young Tim here has nothing but the noblest intentions with Jimmy, I must ask you both to leave." 

  

\-- 

  

Raylan drove his car around the corner and parked it so he and Tim could take turns trying to see who would come out of Boyd's bar. The only thing they had learned today was that the cease-fire between Boyd the the Marshals was over. They couldn't rely on his good will anymore, and Tim couldn't get to Jimmy as easily as he'd hoped. They'd fucked themselves, and Raylan was furious. 

"You haven't been this quiet in all the years I've known you." Tim says, and Raylan just blows air through his nose. They've been sitting in silence for an hour. "Raylan." Tim says, and get's no response. "Raylan." he prompts again. "Raylan!" he finally shouts. 

"What the fuck do you want, Gutterson?" Raylan snaps, turning on Tim with an anger in his eyes Tim has never had directed at himself before. Raylan usually reserved it for people who died shortly after, and it made Tim feel about an inch tall. 

"Why did you do that?" Tim asks, suddenly unsure why the fuck he even wanted to know. 

"Do what?" Raylan asks in his _I-am-getting-real-sick-of-this-shit_ voice. 

"Why did you snap on Rhodes like that? You could have cost us a lot. He's not the kind of man who threaten." Tim decides to stop looking at Raylan and put the binoculars up to his eyes and stare at Boyd's parking lot. 

"You're a fucking idiot." Raylan accuses, and Tim actually manages to feel hurt by that. 

"How's that? If you wanna talk about my relationship with Jimmy again," Tim starts, but is cut off by the sound of Raylan hitting something. Tim doesn't look, but it sounds like he's punching the dashboard. 

"Sure. We can talk about it. We can talk about how much I hate it. How much I hate that you want to sleep with him, how much I hate the way you look at him like if he gave you the chance you'd fall in love with him. I hate him, and I hate seeing you with him. But no, that's not why you're an idiot." Raylan yells most of that, and when he's done he reaches up and grabs the binoculars away from Tim's face. He throws them carelessly into the backseat. Tim doesn't protest, and he doesn't move. He just keeps staring at the bar. He's looking at the sign, notes absentmindedly that the place is simply called _Johnny's_.  

"I'm sorry my feelings for Boy Band make you uncomfortable. I've been honest with both you and him about them. I can't change them." Tim says calmly. Raylan makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. 

"You're a fucking idiot." Raylan repeats. 

"I have no idea what you want from me." Tim admits. When he turns to look at Raylan he can't read the man at all. He looks angry, but also heartbroken, and maybe a little surprised, like he isn't sure of himself. 

"That, Tim, is why you're a fucking idiot." Raylan says softly. "You have no idea how in love with you I am." 

  

\-- 

  

Tim shuts his front door behind himself, and finally let's out the scream he's been holding in for hours. Chillipepper squeaks up at him in worry, and when Tim sinks to his knees and starts to shake, the cat stretches up on his hind legs to rub his face against Tim's. Tim let's himself fall to side, curls Chillipepper against his chest, and the two of them lay there on the cold tile for the rest of the night. 

  

THURSDAY VII 

  

Jimmy is sitting at Tim's desk when Tim shows up for work the next day, and Raylan is glaring at the kid like he wants to cut him in half. Tim tries his best not to look at Raylan, but he catches a glimpse of the man's face and can tell he didn't sleep, but he'd definitely drank. Tim had just gotten out of Raylan's car without a word after Raylan admitted his feelings. He knew Jimmy left his keys in his truck like an idiot, so he'd just stolen it and driven himself home.  

"Mr. Tolan, I want you to know we appreciate what you're doing, but," Rachel was saying to Jimmy when Tim got to them. Tim knew she was trying to convince him to give up Boyd's whole operation, even though everybody in the office knew that would never happen. 

"Leave my CI alone, please, Deputy Brooks." Tim tells her. He says it angrier than he means to, and Rachel actually recoils from him a bit. Tim is just grateful when she turns and walks back to her desk. Tim has never been more aware of just how thin the glass separating him and Raylan is before. 

"I have some information for you. Your boss said I shouldn't really talk to you and just give it to Raylan but he looks extra murdery today so." Jimmy shrugged, and smiled at Tim warmly. Tim just pushes the kid's feet of the desk where he'd propped them up. 

"Wait here, I'll talk to Chief Mullen about that." Tim tells him. He makes the mistake of glancing in Raylan's direction as he turns, and he can see pain etched into the man's features. 

  

\-- 

  

Art is looking at him like he's wondering if Tim has finally snapped. Tim was well aware that Art was waiting for the day he finally went to far and let his PTSD get the better of him. He was also well aware that Art was thinking that day might be today. 

"I would also like to request that I be pulled of the Lyman Berger case permanently." Tim asks. 

"Oh, now you want off of it? After you asked to be kept on when I said you were too personally tied to them?" Art snorts and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

"I am _not_ too personally tied. I can do my job just fine, I can maintain professionalism and I've proven that. What I can't do, is work with Raylan Givens anymore." Tim's voice sounds a little too frantic in his own ears. He knows that Art can tell exactly what this is. Tim is begging. 

"I don't understand. You went with Raylan to Harlan just yesterday. Now you burst into my office and the first words out of your mouth are that you don't want to work with him anymore? You two have been building the Lyman Berger case damn well together, and," 

"Not anymore." Tim cut Art off, which everybody who had ever met the man knew better than to do. 

"I don't understand." Art sighs as he pushes his chair back and stares up at the ceiling.  

"Put Nelson on the Colton Rhodes case with me. He doesn't know Jimmy, so it will work better anyway. Jimmy hates Raylan, and only half as much as Raylan hates Jimmy. Nelson can help me out better than Raylan with this. Rachel can assist Raylan with the Berger and Crowder cases." 

"Tim." Art says, shaking his head. 

"Art. Look at me." Tim says. With a look of surprise, the man does. "Please." 

  

\-- 

  

Jimmy is a little angry to see his truck in the parking garage. 

"I thought somebody stole it!" Jimmy glares at Tim. 

"Somebody did, I did." Tim tells him. 

"We're not taking that, are we?" Nelson asks, eyeing Jimmy's truck like it's infected with something. 

"Take your own damn car if you don't like it." Jimmy snaps. 

"I'm not allowed to. I don't know what the hell is up with the two of you, but the boss said I can't leave you too alone." Nelson narrows his eyes at them, and for a horrible second Tim feels like Nelson can tell exactly how Tim feels about Jimmy. Tim knows that if Nelson figures it out, he'll tell Art. Somehow, the idea of Art finding out Tim is gay is a thousand times worse than Art thinking Tim is a criminal. 

"We can't take Jimmy's truck anyway." Tim says, and Jimmy let's out an _aww_ of protest. "No tinted windows. you want to get seen together?" 

  

\-- 

  

Nelson takes notes. Actual fucking notes in an actual tiny little notebook. They're watching the doors to a VA clinic Colton Rhodes went into a few minutes ago, and Nelson is jotting down every word Jimmy says. Tim just looks at the clinic doors, and thinks about the last time he was here. He'd been picking a happy and mostly healthy Mark up from an NA meeting and he'd never even heard the name Jimmy Tolan in his life. He hadn't been shot, and Raylan Givens hadn't told him he was in love with him. Tim wishes he could go back to that and do everything different. 

"Wait, wait. What was that? Spell that for me." Nelson told Jimmy. 

"B-l-o-n-d-e-l. Or maybe two l's. Well fuck I don't know. Where I'm from the weirdest name you'll find a kid have would be Skylar. I went to school with a  million damn Skylar's I swear to god." Jimmy says, and Nelson let's out a snort of laughter. 

"I thought you were from Harlan? S'what your file says." Nelson said. 

"What? No. I'm from New Mexico, born and bred." Jimmy says it like it's a source of pride, and Tim feels terrible that he didn't know that. 

"Excuse me ladies, but our man is back." Tim informs them. Colton is jogging out of the VA, looking over his shoulder like he's scared of being pursued, he has something clutched under his arm, but they can't make out what it is. "Oh shit. Fuck. Nelson, go inside see if he caused any damage. I'll follow him." 

Tim isn't surprised when Nelson listens to him and jumps out of the side of the van, leaving him and Jimmy alone. 

"Well now I know why you picked him." Jimmy laughs, and Tim starts the engine with a smile on his face. 

  

\-- 

  

They're parked across the street from what Tim guesses is Colton Rhodes' hotel. Nobody at the VA had looked any worse for wear to Nelson, so they had nobody to talk to. Jimmy knew Colton was going it to pick up some drugs, but they had no way to prove that without blowing Jimmy's cover since he was the only one Colton had told. Now they just had to see what he was going to do with it. Jimmy had called Boyd a few hours ago and told him he'd met a girl. He'd told Boyd she was hot blonde thing with great legs, and winked in Tim's direction. Boyd hadn't seemed to really care that Jimmy was staying out all night. When Tim asked what was preoccupying Boyd so much Jimmy just tsk'd him and smirked. 

"There is something up with you." Jimmy says around a mouthful of his shitty fast food burger. 

"Yeah I'm trying to conduct a stakeout with you of all people, while the worst Deputy Marshal in existence is parked up looking like Jeffrey Dahmer at a gay bar." Tim gestured to Nelson's car, which was clearly an officer's car, and was clearly parked way too close to Colton's window. 

"I mean with Raylan." Jimmy said. He leaned over Tim's lap to steal a french fry from the container Tim had tucked in his door handle. 

"Jimmy," Tim started, but Jimmy groaned loudly at him. 

"Raylan told Colton I was your best friend. Made me feel all giddy inside, don't take that away from me." Jimmy scooted closer, and Tim wonders why the fuck he got a van that had a bench seat. Jimmy's knee brushes him and Tim curses internally because Jimmy is doing it all on purpose and it's mean. 

"Raylan was on the verge of compromising everything. Including you. All he managed to do was piss of Boyd and make Colton look at you. He can't be trusted on this." Tim says. Jimmy hums, leans in closer to Tim than in necessary.  

"So you ditched the cowboy to protect me. How sweet." Jimmy smiled, and Tim felt it against his cheek. 

"Why do you do this to me?" Tim asks, turning so his nose is practically touching Jimmy's. 

"Tease you? It's fun" Jimmy shrugs. 

"How? How is using how I feel about you against me fun for you? It's cruel." Tim tells Jimmy, and he almost regrets it when he sees the way the kid's eyes shift uncomfortably. Tim is just exhausted now. He's beyond exhausted. He wishes he didn't want Jimmy, for so many reasons. The least of which being that he can't have him. 

"Is it actually hard for you?" Jimmy asks. He's not scooting away, and Tim can still taste his breath. Jimmy was drinking lemonade, and his breath was a sticky sweet that hurt Tim. 

"Yes, Jimmy. It is hard for me when you pretend like I can have you." Tim admits, and he sees Jimmy sag a little. 

"How tinted are these windows, exactly?" Jimmy asks.  

"As dark as possible. Why?" Tim asks. In answer, Jimmy just leans forward the last inch and kisses Tim on the mouth.  

Jimmy's mouth tastes as sweet as his breath, but also sour from ketchup and dusty from cigarettes. It breaks Tim's heart that it's the best thing he's tasted in a long time. Jimmy kisses badly. Like he's not used to it. It doesn't matter though, because the feeling of his tongue against Tim's is more than Tim had ever dreamed of. Tim doesn't really think about what he's doing, doesn't think about anything at all. He slides his hands into Jimmy's hair, pulls at it more than was probably comfortable. Jimmy lets out a sound that was probably annoyance, but Tim is too busy mapping the patterns in the kid's teeth to make his fingers let go.  

Tim isn't trying to push Jimmy over when he presses their chest's together, but he lays back anyway. It's a terrible angle, and Jimmy's hip is digging painfully into Tim's stomach. Their legs are still hanging over the edge of the seat, but Tim makes no move to try and get his thighs around Jimmy. He doesn't really care. He doesn't want to stop kissing Jimmy for anything in the world. Jimmy's lips are soft in their inexperience, and they mold to what Tim does perfectly. Tim knew this was never going to happen again, and the pain of that pushed him forward more. He bites Jimmy's lip, and the kid lets out a moan. Tim feels is with his whole body, and he moans back. It's only then that he realized he'd been doing that this whole time. Moaning and whimpering into Jimmy's mouth like this was the best thing he'd ever felt.  

Jimmy tries to get his legs up onto the seat, and Tim makes the mistake of trying to help him. As soon as Tim's hand wraps around the back of Jimmy's thigh he tenses. Tim didn't have the brain power to tell his hand to stop though, and he trails it up to squeeze Jimmy's ass. He knows it was a mistake as soon as he does it, and he starts to pull away before Jimmy even has the chance to push him away. Tim sits up in his seat, and stares down at Jimmy's mouth. It's red and wet, and it makes Tim's heart ache to see. Jimmy is still lying on his side, his leg half up on the seat, looking up at Tim like a deer in the headlights. 

"I'm sorry." Jimmy says it in a whisper. Tim knows he means it. He also knows he'll never feel Jimmy's touch ever again. The flirting was done, even if they managed to stay whatever it was they were after this.  

"Me too." Tim whispers back.


	13. Bye bye, Raylan, what a delight.

FRIDAY VII 

  

Tim is sitting in Nelson's passenger seat when it dawns on him. He swears loudly and Nelson startles with a curse of his own. Tim tells him to turn around and he listens after a quick shouting match. Tim doesn't know why he hadn't seen it earlier. He should have known better, _R_ _aylan_ should have known better. It all falls into place on accident for Tim when he absentmindedly thinks about Lyman Berger shooting the state trooper, and he feels like a fucking idiot. Boyd Crowder had shown his hand the first day Tim spent in his bar and Tim hadn't even seen it. He sees it now though and the only thing he knows for sure is that he wants to put a bullet in Boyd Crowder before Colton Rhodes does. 

  

\-- 

  

"It's really not that complicated." Tim snaps at Raylan, when the man asks a question. Tim isn't even sure what he asked, but Raylan asking him anything at all is making his head spin. 

"Well why don't you just lay it all out a bit more clearly." Rachel says, soothing Tim even though she obviously doesn't know why he needs to be soothed. 

Tim had spent nearly two hours putting all the evidence and files together before calling everyone into the conference room. The board behind him is tacked with a couple dozen crooked pictures and a few hastily written notes in his own chicken scratch. He knows that he's talking in circles, mostly because he's angry and amped up, but also because Raylan sat _right next to him_ and has been _staring at his face_ the entire time they've been in here. 

"Okay, right." Tim starts, and tries to force himself calm before he starts to repeat himself. "We thought Lyman Berger stole that weed straight from the Bennett's stash houses. Except we know that Boyd and the Bennett family had themselves a nice little war going on well before Mags passed. I think Boyd stole it first, and made the mistake of hiring Lyman to move it. Only Lyman didn't take it where Boyd wanted, he took it somewhere more lucrative." 

"Dixie Mafia." Art sighs, throwing the hastily compiled file Tim had handed him onto the table, scattering the pages across it. 

"Right. Lyman was probably working with them in the first place, and Boyd didn't know. When Boyd was brought up to Lyman he got angry, and he clearly doesn't think the man has any authority. Boyd didn't know any of that, though, all he knew was Lyman took his weed. He realized it too late, and that's why he thought Wynn Duffy was behind the kidnapping. The guys who jumped Deputy Givens," Tim's voice catches, and Raylan shifts minutely in his seat. "they weren't answering a bounty that little old Lyman put on Raylan's head. Whoever Lyman works for, whoever his man in the mob is, _that's_ who put out the word. That's why they were so good. And the guys who shot at us. They were mafia contractors." 

"Okay." Art says the word so slowly it's practically three syllables. "So you got a lead on the case you asked to be pulled off of just yesterday." 

"Well, no. Sort of. Colton Rhodes." Tim gestures to the picture of the man that's tacked over his left shoulder. "Boyd has gone and made the same mistake twice. Lyman is, excuse my french, getting his _shit_ kicked in by Crowder. Rhodes is the fail safe. Jimmy said he thought Colton was taking orders from someone else. It only makes sense, Boyd is messing with their plans just as much as we are. The package Colton picked up at the VA last night wasn't drugs like Jimmy thought. Whatever it was has something to do with the job he's been sent here to do. Best guess, that's to kill Boyd Crowder."  

"And why do we not just let him and arrest him afterwards?" Nelson asks, and Tim and Raylan both turn and fix him with the same filthy look. 

"He kills Boyd, he kills Jimmy Tolan soon after, and I've decided I don't give a hell anymore if everybody knows that I don't take too kindly to that idea." Tim tells him, and he can practically feel Art rolling his eyes. 

Nobody says anything for a second, and Tim tries his best not to look over at Raylan. He's noticed the man tenses every time Tim says Jimmy's name, and he's afraid if he looks Raylan in the eye he'll see everything that happened last night written on Tim's face. 

"So we've got Boyd Crowder fighting the Dixie Mafia and a CI caught in the middle of it." Rachel says. "Sounds like a good time to me." 

  

\-- 

  

Tim hates not telling Mark what's going on, but even more than that he hates the idea of what Mark's reaction will be when he does. 

"I gotta tell you man, I sure am excited to be coming home next week." Mark smiles brightly, bouncing a little in his chair. Everything else melts away for Tim in the moment. Mark is happy and nothing else matters right now. 

"I'm excited too. You should see the shit I've been eating." Tim tells him, reaching over to ruffle his hair gently. 

"You always do just fine without me, shithead." Mark scoffs, but he leans into Tim's touch none the less. 

"No, Scarponi. I don't." Tim whispers, leaning in to press the words into the back of Mark's neck. He breathes in his scent, and decides he'll tell Mark about everything tomorrow. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim expects Jimmy, and he can't say the surprise is pleasant when he comes home to find out it's Raylan that's broken into his house while he was visiting Mark. 

"Get out." is all Tim says, throwing his keys on the counter and strolling passed Raylan into the kitchen. 

"We need to talk." Raylan says calmly, taking a sip from the beer he'd obviously stolen from Tim's fridge. It was the last one, Tim knew. He wants to be angry about it, but he thinks it's really insignificant compared to everything else. 

"I thought I made my stance on that idea pretty clear." Tim turns his back to the living room and wraps his hands around the edge of the counter, pressing hard enough to hurt his fingers. Leaning forward pulls at his chest and shoulder, pressure shooting through the parts of him that are only barley pieced back together. 

"I don't think I have to tell you how much your reaction to my confession of love hurts." Raylan laughs. He actually fucking _laughs_ and Tim has the urge to turn around and shoot him. 

"You shouldn't have said anything." Tim tells him, hating how his voice catches as he does. He hears Raylan sigh softly, followed by the sound of the beer bottle hitting the coffee table. In the few seconds it takes for Raylan to cross from where he was sitting to where Tim is standing, Tim tries desperately to make up his mind about how to react. 

"Tim." Raylan's voice is doing that soft thing again. Tim had never been able to place it before, but now he knows. This is Raylan's _I-love-you_ voice. It makes Tim feel sick. 

"I can't love you." Tim chokes out. He takes pride in the fact that he doesn't flinch when Raylan's hands settle on his hips and the man leans over him. 

"I'm not asking you to." Raylan whispers, his breath hot on Tim's neck. "I ain't asking you for anything. Maybe you're right, I shouldn't have said anything. I never planned to. When I found out you were gay, I don't know, I guess it gave me hope. I know that's misplaced now, I get it. I can't help but hate the idea of you and Jimmy though. I can't stand that. I know that ain't my place and you don't want to hear it, but it breaks my heart thinking of it." 

"Raylan, damn it." Tim leans back against Raylan, cursing his body as he feels it happening. "Stop touching me, please. We can talk, just stop _touching me_." Tim sighs when Raylan steps back immediately. Tim turns to face him, and they just stand there for a moment, leaning against adjacent counters. 

"Am I not your type?" Raylan asks, smiling softly at Tim. The smile does a shit job of hiding the fact that Raylan really _is_ hurting. 

"If you didn't love me we'd probably be in bed right now." Tim says honestly, and he enjoys the surprise he sees on Raylan's face. 

"Well maybe I decided I hate your guts." Raylan tells him, and Tim can't help but laugh. He doubts Raylan gets that he just made a joke. It's sobering, somehow, when Milkovich's voice echoes in Tim's head, _I love your guts, Guts_.  

"Raylan, I just can't." Tim smiles gently. "I'm sorry." 

"Shit Tim, there is nothing to be sorry about. You feel what you feel. Just," Raylan pauses, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Just please don't sleep with Jimmy Tolan. I know he says he's straight, but I said the same thing when I was twenty. And let me tell you, Tim, you are damn more than enough to make a man realize different." 

"Yeah, and who made you realize? Was it Boyd?" Tim smirks. 

"Shit, you're gonna make me sick. No, it was fucking not _Boy_ _d_. I always knew, really. My mom had some old poster of a hot cowboy type in the bathroom. First thing I ever jacked off to was his thighs in them Levi's. Didn't act on it until Miami, though. Late bloomer." Raylan tells him. 

"Oh man, that sounds like a story." Tim smiles. 

"Maybe one for another day." Raylan says. 

  

SATURDAY VII 

  

Mark has a little notebook that sits on his side table, and he refuses to let Tim look at it. Tim knows that Mark's therapist, Sam, has read it many times. It makes Tim feel a undeserving rush of jealousy. Sam had explained it to him, though. The notebook was a private, safe place for Mark's thoughts. It was his choice to share it with whoever he wanted. Tim hates that notebook, but he just keeps staring at it while Mark screams at him. Sam is standing uncomfortably in the doorway, and in the back of Tim's mind he adds _one_ to the number of people who now know he's gay. 

"I swear to god, Guts, you are the stupidest motherfucker I've ever met! And we've both met Dipstick. God I could just strangle you." Mark shouts at him. "But I will not do that." he adds for Sam's benefit. 

"I think you might be overreacting here, Scarponi." Tim says, lifting his eyes from the notebook to flash a reassuring look at Sam. Nobody was worried about Mark hurting Tim, but Sam seemed to think stress could trigger self destructive behavior in Mark. Tim just wishes the therapist wasn't looking at him so damn sympathetically right now. 

"Overre- _no_! No, Tim, god damn it. Raylan Givens who is, frankly, the best piece of ass you could ever hope for, tells you he's in love with you, and your reaction is to make out with a criminal instead!" Mark moves like he's going to start pacing but his leg gives out. Tim catches him, and holds the man against his chest until he can get his leg back under him. 

"You know I can't," Tim starts, but Mark cuts him off by shoving angrily at his shoulders. It causes Tim pain through the right one, and he hisses sharply on his inhale. He knows Mark didn't mean to hurt him, but that doesn't make Tim feel any less betrayed by the action. Sam straightens himself up in the doorway when he realizes that Tim's in pain, like he's ready to step in if he has too. 

"Can't fall in love. Blah, blah. You know, that's such fucking bullshit." Mark scoffs. 

"No!" Tim yells. It seems to startle both Mark and Sam. "God damn it, Scarponi. no. You've _never_ gotten it, you fucking idiot!" 

"Sergeant Major, I'm gonna have to ask you not to speak to my patient that way." Sam says, his voice clipped. 

"It's fine. Guts can talk however he wants as long as he god damn _talks_ to me. You say I don't get it, explain it to me. I hate not knowing. You keep this to yourself, and you've never kept anything form me. I can't stand it, Guts." Mark pleads. 

"It's really not complicated, Scarponi. I've been in love once, and that ended with my fiance dying in my arms. So, no, Scarponi, it's not that I can't love again. If I let myself, sure, I could probably fall in love with Raylan in a heartbeat. What I can't do, is survive it if another man I love up and fucking dies on me. I've seen Raylan Givens hurt, and it will fucking break me if I see him dead." 

  

\-- 

  

Tim liked Sam. Mostly because he was actually helping Mark, but also because when he'd tried to look up the man's history in the Air Force, the files had been sealed. Whatever he'd been before he opened up a rehab facility for vets, he'd been a fucking badass. Tim's own file wasn't even sealed, and he liked to think he was pretty damn badass himself. 

"Sergeant Major, can I have a word." Sam asks, reaching out but stopping just short of putting a hand on Tim's shoulder. He'd gotten used to making sure nobody touched Mark, and he hadn't seemed to be able to decide whether it was safe to touch Tim or not. 

"Sure thing, Captain." Tim flashes him a smile that feels tight against his teeth. 

"Look, I know it's really not my business but," Sam starts. 

"Nope, it's not." Tim sighs. They're still standing in Mark's room. Mark had gone to a group meeting with the promise that he and Tim would talk more tomorrow. 

"Hey, man. You know how much I charge because you pay his bills, and I'm about to give you some advice for free. You should probably take it." Sam smirks. 

"Doesn't mean I have to follow it." Tim tells him. 

"Yeah, yeah. Listen. You're not my patient, so I have no reason to keep our relationship purely professional. Meaning, I don't have any reason not to divulge the following information to you." Sam says, and he's giving Tim a look that he doesn't really understand. 

"Alright." Tim says slowly. 

"When I was in, I made the same mistake you did. Got involved, fell in love with a fellow soldier. Ended about the same way too. Flying a night mission, nothing we hadn't done a thousand times before. All cream cheese, until an RPG knocks the love of my life out of the sky. Nothing I could do. It's like I was up there just to watch." Sam tells him, and Tim has the strong feeling he's hearing something he shouldn't. 

"I'm sorry, Captain. I don't have to tell you I know how that feels." Tim tells him.  

"No, that's my point. _I_ know how _you_ feel. I also know how terrifying it is to love again. It took me ten years and finally finding a man who is too stubborn to give up on loving me. Every day I'm terrified though. My husband's an artist, so worst case scenario he gets mugged, or in an accident. That happens and, well, like you said, I don't think I'd survive it. Best case scenario we grow old and gray and live to be a hundred years old. But even then, if Steve goes before me, it'll _kill_ me." Sam says this with a finality that makes Tim feel like the man has spent a lot of time thinking about this. 

"So, your point is, what? I'm right and moving on is terrifying beyond measure?" Tim asks. 

"Yes, god yes. But it's also _worth it_. I wouldn't trade what I have with Steve for any sense of security in the world." 

  

\-- 

  

Tim is laying in his bed with Chillipepper on his chest, wondering when his life became so complicated. Tim knows, logically, that Sam is right. He also knows the difference between them. Sam runs a facility that helps vets cope with PTSD, where Tim spends every second of every day just trying not to let his own PTSD get the best of him. It was so _easy_ with Jimmy, because Jimmy was an impossibility. Tim could let himself want him, because he'd never have him, so he'd never lose him. 

Then again, Tim had thought the same thing about David. He hadn't felt a damn thing for the man, but when he'd heard that he'd died, it had still sent him into a tailspin. You share a bed with a man enough times and it doesn't matter that you don't care, he's still there. He'd still be a part of Tim's life, and he'd still lost him. The routine was disrupted, and a person Tim had expected to be there suddenly _wasn't_. He remembers the day of the funeral, standing in his dress uniform on a hill above everyone David had known. Tim hadn't recognized any of them, and none of them had even known Tim was up there. He'd watched David get lowered in to the ground, and watched a bunch of people who hadn't even known the man mourn him. His wife and children had been crying, and Tim had watched them silently. When it was over he'd walked over to the nearest tree and thrown up. He hadn't cried, and he hated himself for not being able to. After everyone had left he'd climbed down to the gravestone and left a wilting white chrysanthemum on the gravestone. His hands had been shaking, and he knew then that David really hadn't been safe. Nobody would ever be safe for very long. 

Raylan though, wouldn't even _start_ as safe, not in the slightest. Tim knew without a doubt that Raylan was going to, one day, die bloody. Just like Tim himself would. It was just the type of men they were, the two of them. It'd be hard enough if Raylan died _now_ , with them just being friends. Well, friends with a new-found load of sexual tension and the knowledge or unrequited love. 

Tim just pets Chillipepper and wishes he was better. Wishes that he was well enough to be in love with Raylan.


	14. Oh Mark, here we go again.

SUNDAY VII 

  

If Tim had told anybody where he was going, they'd have been furious. Raylan would have tried to stop him, and Art would have probably had him arrested. So he didn't tell anyone, and he's kicking himself for not letting Mark know where he was going to be right now. Usually, staring down the barrel of a gun while his own was still holstered made Tim feel a little uncomfortable. 

"From the look on your face when you walked in here this ain't a social visit." Boyd says, and Tim finally knows _just_ how much he's underestimated this man. Boyd had played him like a fiddle, and was trying to keep doing it right now, using his charm to try and manipulate Tim into doing exactly what he wanted. Tim just wishes he knew what it _was_ that Boyd wanted, so he would know to do the opposite. 

"Well you have made me look mighty stupid a lot lately." Tim tells him. Tim is trying his best not to look at Jimmy, so he doesn't draw any attention to the man. It's only Ava and the nameless thug from the other day here, but it's a good thing they're both turned to look at Tim, because they might read everything in Jimmy's face if they turned to him. Jimmy looks truly terrified, but more than that, Tim is glad that nobody can see that Jimmy has his gun pointed at Boyd's back. 

"I suppose I should apologize for that. Though I am sure you understand, considering the circumstances." Boyd says. He doesn't drop the gun, but Tim is glad he's just barley stupid enough to be standing a little too close to Tim. Everybody in the room tenses when Tim grabs the gun from his hand and they start to struggle. Jimmy flinches so hard Tim is afraid he's going to pull the trigger and kill his boss in front of them all. Boyd fights his best to hold on to the weapon, and Tim has a sickening rush of excitement when he realizes one of them might die here. 

"Let go, Bluegrass, god damn it." Tim shouts, smashing an elbow into the man's sternum. Boyd coughs wetly, but he finally loosens his grip. Tim takes the gun apart without really thinking about it, tossing the pieces behind him. 

"God _damn_ , Guts! Police brutality!" Boyd shouts, clutching his chest. Tim smiles at him. 

"Well now that we're a little friendlier, let's just have ourselves a little talk." 

  

\-- 

  

Tim doesn't think twice about sitting close to Jimmy on the couch, but the man tenses uncomfortably when their thighs bush together. Boyd sits in his chair with Ava standing over him, pressing ice to his chest. The look on her face is stern, almost angry. Boyd is just looking up at her silently, and Tim can tell from looking that for Boyd, Ava has hung the moon. Ava pulls the ice away from Boyd's chest and he groans in discomfort. Tim is fully aware that Boyd is overreacting, but he mostly just finds that amusing. 

"You sure you don't want a job, Deputy? You sure seem to keep going against the law enough. You're making Raylan look like he runs by the letter." Ava says, giving Tim the filthiest look he's ever seen a woman muster. 

"I just want to know why Boyd decided to pretend to be my friend. It hurts me a little bit, honestly. What did it gain you?" Tim asks. He has his hand tucked between him and Jimmy, pressing his knuckles into the man's thigh roughly, trying to keep the man grounded. He's squeezing his own thumb, pushing on it hard, letting the ache of it hold him in the moment. 

"Well I must tell you, Deputy Gutterson, that we could easily be true friends were you to take Ava up on that offer." Boyd says, baring his teeth in a way that Tim isn't so sure is supposed to be a smile. "Now this might make you feel a bit cheated, but I do, in fact, consider Raylan to be my friend." 

"Well that truly does make me feel a bit jealous. What's he got that I don't?" Tim asks. He only really has half his attention on Boyd, and the rest on Jimmy. Every time the man twitches, Tim is afraid he's going to do something stupid. He's not sure what he expects, but he can tell Jimmy is angry with his boss. Tim is pretty sure that whatever game Boyd is playing, Jimmy hadn't been told about it. 

"History, Deputy. It's as simple as that. Unfortunately though, what he no longer has, is _cooperation_." Boyd tells him. Ava settles herself into Boyd's lap then, smiling at Tim like he imagines she would smile at a puppy. 

"So you used me for that. You needed to know what I knew, and feed me false information along the way." Tim laughs, throwing his head back. He closes his eyes in lieu of looking at Boyd's filthy ceiling. He feels Jimmy shift next to him, and he uncurls his fist to press his hand under the kid's thigh. He squeezes gently, and Jimmy shivers at the contact, but seems to settle back down. 

"I suppose there is no point talking around that particular piece of information any more." Boyd says, and then Tim hears Ava laugh softly. He wonders how much jail time he'd get if he shot them both right now and ran off with Jimmy. He thinks about it for a moment. Him, Jimmy, Mark, and Chillipepper, piled into his truck, on the run from the law. Shoot-outs all the way to the Canadian border, where they could start a new life together, just them. Tim imagines Mark trying to grow vegetables in the summer, Jimmy becoming a model of some kind. Them all living together in a little house where Tim shot targets in the backyard all day. It's a nice dream, and Tim ignores the voice in the back of his head that asks, _what about_ _R_ _aylan_? 

"So you just thought you could fight the Dixie Mafia on your own and pull one over on us at the same time. Sounds like a good way to get yourself killed." Tim tells Boyd, after a moment. He tilts his head back down to look at Boyd, and sees the man smiling wider than he thinks he's ever seen. 

"Well, I suppose we all must live the life we choose." 

  

\-- 

  

Tim knew Jimmy would follow him eventually. He parks a few blocks away, and settles in with Mystics Of Greenfalls. He'd already read it more than once, but it was what he found tucked in his center console. He turns the pages idly, not really reading it so much as staring at it. It seems like hours later, and he's almost ready to fall asleep when Jimmy finally slides into his truck. He startles, decides he doesn't care that Jimmy noticed. 

"Tim, shit, you gotta know I had no idea." Jimmy says. He leans in closer than Tim expected, and he wonders for a second if he misjudged the situation after their kissing. " _Jesus_ , that's nasty." 

"What?" Tim frowns, but Jimmy just scoffs, reaching up to touch Tim gently on his left eyebrow. It stings a bit, and Jimmy pulls his fingers back to show Tim the flecks of dried blood he'd picked up. Tim hadn't noticed the sting before, but now that Jimmy had touched it, the pain seems to flare up suddenly. 

"You didn't even notice that Boyd smashed you in the face? God, you're a mess." Jimmy smiles softly, and he leans back from Tim again. The distance is further than maybe it's ever been. In that moment Tim realizes that everything he felt for Jimmy has changed. Jimmy is his friend, and nothing else lingers between them anymore. It's like a slap in the face when he realizes that, and he tries not to think about it too hard. He's sure Jimmy can tell the difference to, because he's more comfortable next to Tim than ever before. 

"Jimmy, shit. Why the fuck do you work for that man? Far as I can tell he doesn't tell you shit and asks you for everything in return." Tim tells him, leaning his head back against his seat. 

"You wouldn't understand." Jimmy sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He does it gingerly though, and Tim knows it still hurts from when he got it broken. 

"I pay a few grand a week so my drug addicted best friend can get help with his PTSD in the hopes that I can stop him from killing himself. The same friend who I hired that rat _fuck_ Crowder to find and got us in the mess in the first place, I might add. I think I know a thing or two about blind loyalty." Tim tells him, and Jimmy snorts out a laugh. 

"It wasn't Boyd who recruited me, originally. I did it because his cousin Johnny offered me a shit load of money. Little while later I find myself getting kicked around by some random tweaker, for no reason, really. Boyd shows up right about the time I started to black out, saved my life." Jimmy says. 

"You do realize Boyd has a grand total of three employees and losing one to a random tweaker might not be good for his image or business." Tim tells him. Jimmy tenses, and Tim wonders just how often that exact thought had crossed his mind before. 

"Doesn't mean I don't owe him." Jimmy says gruffly. 

"So are we going to pretend you weren't going to shoot him if he hurt me in there?" Tim asks gently. 

"I didn't know what to do." Jimmy whispers after a moment. 

"You're loyal to Boyd but that doesn't mean you have love for him. And either you've been lying to me this whole time and you were playing me twice as good as Boyd was, or you do have some for me." 

"I haven't been playing you." Jimmy buries his head in his hands, looking like he might start crying. 

"Good. Because you're coming with me." 

  

\-- 

  

Chillipepper still doesn't like Jimmy, but his hisses are only about half as threatening as Raylan's stare was when he first saw Jimmy in Tim's house. Jimmy is tucked away safely in Mark's bedroom, where they agreed he'd be staying. Tim knew now that he couldn't underestimate Boyd again, and there was no way the man hadn't felt Jimmy's wavering. Now that Jimmy had gone what Boyd would consider AWOL, Tim knew the kid was showing his hand. He'd picked a side, and Boyd would know it. Tim would talk to Art in the morning about getting himself assigned officially to protect Jimmy until they could settle everything. For now Tim was going to keep him here, and Raylan wasn't happy about it. He wasn't happy about any of it. 

"You could have been killed." Raylan whispers, rubbing his thumb across the cut over Tim's eyebrow. 

"Well at least then Boyd would have gone to prison." Tim winces at Raylan's touch, but he doesn't pull away from it. 

"Nobody knew you were there." Raylan reminds him. 

"Jimmy did." Tim smiles, and Raylan actually starts to pout. Tim knows how this must look to Raylan, and after the conversation they had in Tim's kitchen, he knew how it must be making Raylan feel. "We're not sleeping together, Raylan." Tim reassures him. 

"Yet." Raylan scoffs. 

"Raylan, for shits sake. You keep saying you're so sure it's gonna happen I'm thinking maybe you want it to. You angling for a threesome?" Tim smirks, keeps to himself just how many times he's imaged that exact threesome. 

"I just know if I was a enterprising young man with your attention on me I'd be chomping at the bit to get a taste." Raylan smirked right back, and Tim was suddenly sure Raylan did know exactly how many times Tim had thought of that threesome. 

"And what if I tell I've already had one." Jimmy cuts in suddenly from over by the hallway, his voice making them both jump. Tim hadn't even noticed how close he and Raylan were standing to each other until they pulled apart. 

"What did he just say?" Raylan snaps at Tim. 

"I've had a taste of him already." Jimmy smirks. He's just standing in the doorway to the hall, his arms crossed over his chest. It takes Tim a second to notice that he's not wearing a shirt. Tim wonders if he should step between him and Raylan, or if the tensing in Raylan's shoulders is under control. 

"Tim, you just told me you haven't," Raylan starts, and Tim stops him with by resting his hand on the man's chest. 

"We kissed." Tim tells him. It annoys him, because he'd intended to never tell Raylan about that. Ever. "Jimmy wasn't interested so nothing went further. He's just riling you up." Tim assures. 

"Who said I wasn't interested?" Jimmy teases. Tim knows his only aim it to piss Raylan off, and he shoots him a warning glare. "Well damn, I didn't know Boyd was right. He said there was something going on between you two, but I thought it was bullshit." 

"There is nothing going on between us." Tim snaps. 

"Boyd thought what?" Raylan asks at the same time. 

"Oh my god." Jimmy laughs. "Much as I hate this situation, you guys are certainly going to be entertaining enough to make it worth while." 

  

MONDAY VIII 

  

Art doesn't scream very often. It makes Tim feel very, very small when he does. He's angry at Tim for, well, everything, really. The fact that Tim made a fuss about not working with Raylan to get pulled off a case he then wants back in on. That he went to Harlan on his own and exposed his CI by pulling him out of his criminal enterprise without warning anybody. He's extremely angry that Tim didn't run a single piece of all of that by him. What really seems to send him through the wall though, is when Tim tells him everything else. 

"I couldn't give a shit loving fuck who you screw as long as it's not a damn criminal!" Art screams, and Tim is just glad that it's so early that there is nobody else in the office yet to overhear. 

"We aren't sleeping together." Jimmy says, looking for all the world like Art doesn't intimidate him in the slightest. 

"I am not talking to you right now Mr. Tolan. You have done enough damage." Art turns on him, shouting a little more softly. Nobody in the room is in as much trouble as Tim is. 

"Nine." Tim practically sobs out, leaning forward to put his head between his knees. 

"Excuse me?" Art snaps. 

"Nine people alive who know I'm gay." Tim knows his voice is choked, but he tells himself that no matter what, he's not going to cry in front of his boss. 

"Shit, Tim." Art's voice is still angry, just quieter. "That's your biggest concern right now?" 

"I think he has every right to be upset about it." Raylan interjects. It's the first time he's spoken since they stepped into Art's office. 

"Oh, really?" Art asks, and Tim doesn't have to lift his eyes to know the look Art has on his face right now. He knows it's nasty. 

"He's spent his whole fucking life hiding it from people and he was just forced to tell you because he had no other choice, not because he wanted to. Show some fucking respect, asshole." Jimmy snaps, and Tim feels a rush of affection for the man like never before. 

"You might want to watch the way you speak to me, son." Art sighs. "But I do understand your point. Okay, Tim." Art pauses, waits for Tim to look up at him. "I'm sorry." he says, and Tim can tell that he's sincere. 

"I never was going to tell you, you know. Didn't think it mattered. I know it does now, though. I know how this will look if some lawyer finds out and they think you hid it. I'm sorry, Art." Tim says, still pushing back the emotions that want to bubble to the surface. 

"Okay." Art sighs. "You're a good man Tim, and I know you're good at your job. This is a lot more complicated than I'd like, but I supposed there is nothing that can't be handled." 

  

\-- 

  

Tim has never been so scared in his entire life. Which is saying a lot, considering the life he has led. He's let Boyd know that the Marshals know what is going on, which means catching anybody in any criminal activity will be twice as hard. Tim somehow managed to get Art to put him back on the Lyman Berger case after convincing him he wanted off of it because he was scared about Raylan knowing he's gay. Since Art was now thoroughly convinced that Tim and Jimmy were lovers, he didn't seem to suspect the truth at all. 

Tim also managed to get himself assigned to keep Jimmy safe, in his own house, even though it was probably the least safe place for them. Tim imagines that's because Art doesn't actually care if Jimmy is safe now that he can't be a credible CI. Worst part of that though, is Tim is pretty sure the only reason he got the gig is because Raylan will be staying with them too. Raylan is technically keeping Tim safe, since Art is worried about how he riled Boyd up. Art hadn't been too enthusiastic about so many people in the same place at once, but Jimmy made it very clear that he would pitch a fit if they tried to separate him from Tim. So he, Jimmy, and Raylan are stuck locked up in the house, hiding from Boyd Crowder on one side and the Dixie Mafia on the other. 

What he's truly afraid of, is the taxi that's currently pulling up outside the house. Raylan has his gun pointed through the curtains even though they know who it is. Tim had called, filled both Sam and Mark in on the situation. Problem was that once Mark heard the word _dangerous_ , he was only twice as itchy to get home. Mark was as protective of Tim as Tim was of Mark. Besides that, now that he knew all about the situation with Jimmy and Raylan, he was all too excited to get his ass in the middle of it. Unlucky for Tim, Sam had seemed completely indifferent to the situation as long as it got Mark out of his facility. 

The look on Mark's smug ass little face when he climbs out of that cab makes Tim wish Boyd had shot him in the damn head. 

  

\-- 

  

"I say since you already gave Jimmy my room we keep it that way and you and Raylan share your room." Mark says, smiling at Tim across the table like he's having the time of his life. 

"There are four bedrooms in this house, Scarponi. Jimmy will stay in yours, and you and Raylan can fight over the two spares, I don't really give a shit where you land on that." Tim tells him, stabbing his food with as much vigor as he wishes he were stabbing it into Mark's dumb face. 

"Maybe me and you can just share a bed instead, baby." Jimmy smiles, throwing a wink to Tim over his beer bottle. 

"Mr. Tolan I suggest you keep your comments buttoned up unless you want me to shoot you." Raylan warns. 

"Nobody is shooting anybody over the meal I put so much love into, _please_." Mark warns, and Tim just lets out a groan of annoyance. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim has never seen Chillipepper so annoyed. He won't even let Tim pet him, just keeps sitting on the top of the dresser, twitching his tail and making noises of protest as Tim moves around the room. Chilli still hates Jimmy and Raylan, and the noise everybody has been making that night made the cat twitchy and nervous. Tim felt bad about it. 

"You know," comes Raylan's voice from the doorway. "It's a good thing you convinced Art to let you in on this job. If he'd stuck me alone with Jimmy I might have shot him out of pure jealousy." 

"You have to know I'd never forgive you if you did that." Tim tells him, suddenly all too aware of the fact that he's just standing with his back to Raylan wearing nothing but his boxers. It's nothing Raylan hadn't seen before, but now the whole situation has changed. There is a tension in the air that makes Tim's skin feel tight. 

"Yeah, I suppose I would hate to get on your bad side." Raylan says, and Tim can hear the smile in his voice. He can also hear that Raylan manged to take a few silent steps closer, so he's standing right behind Tim. "You know, he told me that you taste like licorice." 

"Raylan." Tim warns, turning around to face him. He didn't expect to be faced with the naked expanse of Raylan's chest, and he feels his breath hitch in his throat. He knows Raylan hears it to, because his smirk just widens. The wound on his stomach where he'd been stabbed was still red and angry, but didn't seem to cause Raylan pain anymore. Tim found himself staring at it, to keep himself from looking at Raylan's face. 

"I just came to say goodnight." Raylan whispers, leaning in close. Raylan's breath smells like the garlic bread Mark had made for dinner, and Tim wonders if maybe he likes that _way_ more than he should. "Goodnight, Tim." Raylan says, pressing his lips gently to Tim's cheek. 

"You are a son of a bitch." Tim chokes out, just trying to his best to stop himself from turning his head towards Raylan. 

"Yeah, I guess I am." Raylan smiles, and Tim is almost positive he will feel that mouth burned into his skin for the rest of his life. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim didn't expect Mark to sleep in the guest room, and so he's already waiting with the covers rolled down when the man slides into his bed. Tim sighs in relief, leaning his body back against Mark's chest. 

"Jesus god damn christ I've missed you." Mark breaths, and Tim just hums in agreement. The stress of the situation is still sitting tightly in his shoulders, but the pain in his chest starts to melt under Mark's hands. 

"You ain't been the big spoon in a long time." Tim says, reaching back to pull Mark's arm tighter around his body. 

"You think Raylan will be cool with me sliding into your bed after you two get married?" Mark teases, using his good leg to knock his knee against the back of Tim's. 

"Hm, well if he isn't I won't marry him." Tim says. He hesitates in saying what he wants to next, but he figures if Mark has ever been in the place to hear it, it's the place he's in now. "You know I'll never love anyone as much as you, right? I mean shit, Arthur could still be alive, laying right here with us and I'd still love you best." 

"Oh now that's bullshit. Nobody could have held a candle to Wish Wash." Mark scoffs, tightening his grip on Tim like it hurts him just to think about it. 

"No, Scarponi. It's you. Always gonna be you. Even in the unlikely situation that I do get married, nothing will come before you. Not even me, you know that." Tim insists, and he feels Mark shudder behind him. 

"Shit." Mark chuckles. "I love you too, Tim." Mark says, and it's the first time in their whole lives that Mark has ever called him _Tim_ _._ It hurts as much as it feels good, and Tim suddenly feels like somehow, everything is going to be okay. 

"Yeah, Mark. I love you."


	15. And Tim, after all the pain is gone.

TUESDAY VIII 

  

"What was the military like?" Jimmy asks while Tim is lounging in a chair by the window, watching his little cul de sac intently. The question is directed at all of them, but Tim can feel Jimmy looking at the back of his neck. 

"Best years of my life." Mark tells Jimmy from where he's sitting at the kitchen counter, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. He'd been stirring for about ten minutes, just staring blankly at the wall opposite him and frowning. 

"Most boring of mine." Raylan says. Tim had almost thought the man might have been asleep, the way he was sprawled out on the couch with his hat pulled over his eyes. For some reason, all morning so far, Tim has been fixated on the fact that Raylan is barefoot. He'd never seen that before, not even when he stayed in his motel. Raylan had worn socks then, but now the delicate bones of his feet and ankles are on display and it somehow felt _intimate_ to Tim. He just hoped he wasn't stumbling upon the realization of a long repressed foot fetish. 

"Tim?" Jimmy asks, pulling Tim from his thoughts of Raylan's stupid, naked feet. 

"It was alright." Tim tells him, because he doesn't know what else to say. 

"Well, tell me about it." Jimmy says, yawning hugely. 

For some reason he doesn't think about too hard, Tim does. 

  

TUESDAY, 2009 

  

Tim was sitting in a field of grass. It was mostly brown and crispy, but a few patches remained bright and alive. Dipstick was sitting a few feet away braiding the strands of green grass together, smiling happily at the men who were milling around, wearing the little grass crowns he'd made for them. Tim knew that if it had been anybody but Dipstick who'd made them, they'd have been laughed at and thrown away. Tim wasn't honestly sure how the hell Dipstick made it into the Rangers, or the Army at all for that matter. He was the best of them, though. A good man, through and through. Actually bought into the whole fighting for the American way bullshit. He was too good for war, and certainly too good for the likes of this damn battalion. He did his job though, even though Tim knew for damn near certain the man had zero kills under his belt, even after all these years. 

Scarponi appeared suddenly at Tim's side, nearly startling him. Scarponi was silent, even when Tim knew he tried his best to make noise.  He had only known the man for about a week, and was mostly still in awe of him as a soldier. Machine might have been a more adept term. He was kind and funny, but his body seemed to run entirely on pain and sheer will.  Scarponi dropped down heavily next to Tim and knocked their shoulders together, but neither of them said anything. Tim pretended like he didn't feel uncomfortable next to the sheer bulk of the man. Scarponi was built like a gladiator, with as least twice as much muscle as Tim on Tim's best days. Scarponi plucked a piece of grass from between his outstretched feet and twirled it around his fingers. The sun was low in the sky above them, but the grass cut shadows across Scarponi's knuckles that made the scabs adorning them look somehow pretty. 

"Here you go, First Guts." Dipstick said, tossing a grass crown in Tim's direction. It fluttered softly onto his foot, and he picked it up with a smile. It felt sharp under his fingers, the blades of grass making his skin itch. He touched it as gently as he could, placing it on his head with great care. It was weightless against his buzzed off hair. Tim flicked his fingers in Dipstick's direction, as close to a salute as he could get in the desert. 

"Where's mine, Dip?" Scarponi asked, holding a hand out to Dipstick and sounding like he was truly hurt by the lack of gift. 

"I'm afraid I'm all of of grass, Pinkie Pie." Dipstick smiled sweetly. He stared Scarponi dead in the eye as he pulled up more grass and starting making a new crown for someone else. 

Alexander had taken over dolling out nicknames, and he hadn't hesitated a second with Scarponi. He'd caught the pony in his name and then the man was a My Little Pony from that day on. Scarponi had hated it for a few days, but as with everyone, he'd grown to appreciate the name given to him. Funnily enough, Tim was the only one whose rank had got mixed up with his name. He'd been First Guts ever since they'd pinned that black diamond to him. It made his stomach hurt, mostly. Wish Wash wouldn't have called him that, and he couldn't help but hate it. 

  

\-- 

  

"Where did your god damn spotter get to?" Lieutenant Vencatasawmy snapped at Tim as he was folding his body into the tent. The man was too big for everything, but especially the damn tents. He looked angry, and the sweat dripping off his dark skin was enough to drown a horse. 

"He's running circles around the camp in full battle-rattle. Says it helps him stay in shape." Tim said, moving to stand with Vencatasawmy at the tent flap. He gestured to where Scarponi was moving in the distance. He looked a little bit terrifying, sprinting as fast as humanly possibly in a gas mask. Tim had watched him putting rocks in his pack to make it heavier, and his leg's twinged in sympathy at the way the man was working his own. 

"That is _not_ a human." Vencastasawmy said under his breath. "Well if he doesn't drop dead from his little stroll, you and him are heading to the mountains." 

  

WEDNESDAY, 2009 

  

Scarponi wasn't even out of breath when they finally stopped at the top of the mountain. The icy air was punching into Tim's lungs like a pulse, and his breath was ragged. Tim glanced over at his new spotter, and felt a jolt of annoyance. This guy made Tim look like he belonged spooning soup in the mess hall. Scarponi turned and met his glance, and answered Tim's scowl with a wide and blinding smile. They didn't say a word to each other as they got situated. They set up a hooch that was twice as small as usual, made with a white cloth that flapped around furiously in the mountain top wind. Scarponi had expressed worry they shouldn't set it up at all for fear of being noticed. Unlike Scarponi, though, Tim was a _human being_ made of _flesh and bones_ and didn't feel like freezing to death. Tim's teeth were chattering by the time he was done setting up his SWS. Scarponi was still fiddling with the scopes, and Tim stood behind the man with his arms crossed over his chest, staring angrily at the back of the his head. It was their first mission together, and Tim couldn't help but wonder how well they would work with each other in the real deal. 

"I'll go ahead and let you rest, you seem like you need it. I can keep the peep." Scarponi smiled over his shoulder, gesturing towards the hooch. He wasn't even shivering, and Tim wanted to argue with him just for his pride. He really should sleep before he sat himself up to watch, though, so he went reluctantly into the hooch and curled up into a little ball, listening to the wind rippling through the mountains as Scarponi hummed quietly to himself. 

  

\-- 

  

Blowing people's heads off was exciting. Staring at a little mountain town covered in snow, however, _wasn't_. The only people on the streets were children building things out of snow and women ushering them back inside. Vencatasawmy had let Tim know that they were _fairly confident the source of the information was credible_ which mostly meant _yeah there is like a five percent chance Nasir Abd Gadahn is there so go ahead and freeze your dick off checking it out_. 

"You know, I bet Gadahn likes ping pong." Scarponi piped up from behind Tim. He'd relieved the man almost an hour ago, but Scarponi was just sitting with his back pressed to a rock playing with a little puzzle box instead of _resting_ like a human man might be doing. 

"Yeah, but he's probably not very good." Tim said, keeping his focus on a door which had been opened halfway and stopped, nobody stepping out from it. 

"He learned from his grandma, Babs. She was a damn ace, could kick the ass off the best of them." Scarponi said, following it up with something in Pashto that Tim didn't understand. 

"Babs used to sneak off to Japan and compete in tournaments. She's the world record holder but is too humble to accept any prizes or acclaim, so the runner up gets all the glory." Tim smirked. The door he was looking at finally swung open, and an old man stepped out into the street, holding the hand of a small child. 

"Gadahn tagged along once when he was a little boy. Watching little old Babs kick ping pong ass inspired him to train up and become the best ping pong player he could be." Scarponi said, kicking out and hitting Tim in the thigh with his boot. Tim didn't know what the gesture was for, but it felt natural somehow. 

"His soul was crushed the day he realized he'd never live up to Babs' glory." Tim sighed, clutching his chest like he felt truly sorry for poor little Gadahn. 

"He lost horribly at a tournament, made the worst score possible. That's when The Foundatian swooped in, used his ping pong shame to woo him in. Promised him greatness, the glory of a ping pong master." Scarponi said dramatically. 

"That's what he's doing this very moment. Practicing, still trying to make sweet little Babs proud of him." Tim chuckled. Scarponi chuckled too, and then scooted up so he was sitting next to Tim. He leaned into Tim's space, and they fell into a comfortable silence after that. 

  

THURSDAY, 2009 

  

Tim's shift on the scope found Scaroni shirtless, doing chest slap pushups in the snow. The skin on his hands and chest was wet from the snow, and red from the cold. Tim just kept the man in the corner of his vision with a mixture of horror and amazement. Scarponi really was huge. He wasn't any taller than Tim, which made Tim happy, but he was stacked with so much muscle and bulk that he was nearly as wide as tall. Even under his fatigue pants Tim could see the muscles in his legs bulging every time he flexed them. 

"You're going to kill yourself, and I'm not going to feel sad about it." Tim told him. Scarponi just grunted in response. Tim was genuinely worried about the man's nipples, afraid they might fall off. 

  

\-- 

  

"I like to keep my body perfect." Scarponi told him, sipping his drink through his straw noisily. A god damn _straw_. The man had pulled it out of his pack and stuck it into his MRE shake so he could drink it without moving his face from the scope. 

"Well good job, you've succeeded." Tim grumbled around his piece of cake. Cake was a strong word really, since Tim was almost positive he was eating a pink sponge. 

"I'm losing my tone out here though. Too much sitting still." Scarponi complained. He lifted his arm and flexed for Tim to see, and Tim kind of wanted to shoot him in his eighteen and three quarter inch biceps. They'd been measured out of sheer disbelief when Scarponi first showed up. Tim still didn't really believe it. 

"You could always benchpress me if you get too stir crazy." Tim joked. 

  

\-- 

  

The up and down movement made it slightly difficult to focus his eyes completely, but since it was pitch dark in the town Tim wasn't looking at much anyway. Mostly he was impressed, but also slightly insulted as Scarponi counted out each time he managed to successfully bench press Tim's entire weight. 

"Eighty five, eighty six," Scarponi kept counting, and Tim made a mental note to see if Scarponi could do the same thing to all six feet six inches of Lieutenant Vencatasawmy when they got down off this mountain. 

  

FRIDAY, 2009 

  

"There must be a ping pong tournament someplace." Tim whispered around his chattering teeth. The wind had picked up in the night and the temperature had dropped so low that even Scarponi had wrapped himself in his bed roll as they huddled together as best they could in the flap of the hooch. Scarponi's skin still managed to give off heat, and Tim found himself leaning further and further into the man as the day wore on. Scarponi was peeping at the moment, and Tim had his eyes shut tight against the ice and wind. 

"Gadahn has one last chance to impress Babs. This is the big one, the real deal. He's been training twice as hard." Scarponi replied, his voice smooth and clear despite his slight shivering. 

"Babs is sitting in the stands with tears in her eyes for her little Gadahn." Tim rattled out. His voice was shaking so badly he wasn't sure Scarponi could even understand him. 

"Little does Gadahn know that Babs was always proud. Proud that he tried, she didn't care if he won or not. She loved him." Scarponi said sadly, and Tim felt something snap inside himself that he didn't recognize. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim hadn't meant to fall asleep, but he woke up tucked away in the hooch with Scarponi's outer jacket draped around his shoulders. It was well past his time to take over on the scope, but Scarponi was just sitting in the doorway to the hooch in front of him, eyes on the town like there was nothing in the world he'd rather be doing. Tim looked at the man's wide back for a moment, and decided then and there that he would happily die for this man. 

  

SATURDAY, 2009 

  

"Guts, eyes on." Scarponi snapped suddenly. Tim dropped the little puzzle box he'd stolen out of Scarponi's bag into the snow and scooted up next to the man. He crouched in front of  the second scope and followed Scarponi's directions on where to look. Two men stood in the road talking to each other. The man facing them wore a Shemagh around his face so they couldn't make him. The man he was talking to was turned away from them so they couldn't see anything. He had his head uncovered, though, and Tim swore softly under his breath.  Tim pulled the protective cloth off the M24 and crouched down behind it. He was just getting pressed against his shoulder the right way when Scarponi made a noise of warning in the back of his throat. Tim ducked his head to see what Scarponi was looking at, and nearly bit his tongue off in his surprise. 

A third man had stepped into the street, and Nasir Abd Gadahn had turned around to greet him. Tim could see him smile hesitantly, almost bashfully, as they shook hands. Scarponi rattled off instructions, and Tim lined up the shot. They both seemed to hold their breath, waiting for Tim to pull the trigger. Tim felt the wind biting into his skin and thought to himself, _I hope Babs is having a good time at her ping pong tournament_ , before he pulled. 

  

SUNDAY, 2009 

  

Lieutenant Vencatasawmy set a picture of Gadahn's body on the table in front of Tim. 

"Holy shit Guts, you're lucky they could even identify him." Scarponi laughed from next to him. Tim just smirked at the man and punched him lightly in the shoulder. 

"You got me a damn good shot, Pinkie Pie." Tim praised, and Mark beamed. 

  

\-- 

  

The men of the battalion all stared in unadulterated horror as Scarponi bench pressed Vencatasawmy. Tim was pretty sure that the one who was most scared was the Lieutenant himself. Tim couldn't suppress his giddiness in the moment, and he started to laugh. After a few seconds the rest of the men joined in, and pretty soon they were all shouting out the count, cheering for Scarponi like the man was about to break a world record. 

Tim whistled loudly, and maked a note to look up and see if there really was a world record holder for ping pong. 

  

TUESDAY VIII 

  

"Did you get a boner?" Jimmy asks, in complete seriousness. 

"When?" Tim frowns at him. 

"When baby fat over here bench pressed you." Jimmy smirks. Mark chokes on his coffee, and Tim feels his face go a little hot. 

"Please tell me you did not?" Mark screeches. 

"Hey! You were the one who wouldn't shut up about your perfect body, don't blame me!" Tim shrieks back. 

"I'm officially disgusted with you. I am never touching you again." Mark cries. Raylan starts to laugh, holding his stomach like it hurts him. As soon as he starts, Jimmy joins him. 

"You're not even good looking anymore, you skinny piece of shit!" Tim shouts at Mark. 

"Well I can't work out seeing as how I can barley walk, asshole." Mark yells, gesturing wildly at his leg. 

"The drugs probably didn't help." Jimmy chokes out between laughter. 

"Okay, nothing from you, asshole. I hate you." Mark stomps out of the room, heading to his bedroom in a huff. "I hate _all of you_!"


	16. Give me some time, Boyd

STILL TUESDAY VIII

 

Raylan has just taken over watch when Colton Rhodes shows up. He gestures to Tim, and Tim moves to stand at the window behind Raylan's shoulder and watches as a man who is neither Boyd Crowder or Lyman Berger steps out of the truck after Colton. Mark and Jimmy are sitting behind them on the couch, watching a documentary on salmon migration. Neither of them has noticed anything happening yet, and Tim almost wishes he could avoid telling them. He has the sound of Mark's laughter ringing in his head, and he hates that he's going to have to see fear on his face again. 

"I can feel how tense you are from here." Jimmy tells him, without turning around. 

"To be fair, he's always tense." Mark grumbles in response. 

"I'm gonna need you two to grab Chillipepper and go into the furthest guest room. Might as well hide in the special closet." Tim says, not taking his eyes off the man at Colton Rhodes' side as they walk up the driveway. "And Jimmy, cover Scarponi's ears." 

"Really?" Jimmy asks, like he's not sure whether to be amused or not. 

"Really. Keep his ears closed tight. He hears a single thing and I'll take it out on your ass." Tim says, turning away from the window to shoot them both a look. 

"You know, I've heard the phrase a lot in my life. Doesn't have quite the same connotation coming from a gay man." Jimmy snorts, but he hovers his hand about Mark's back and they head towards the hallway. "You gonna rip my hands off if I touch you?" he asks Mark. 

"Probably." Mark responds. Jimmy just sighs, turning back to give Tim a filthy look. 

Tim turns back to the window, and tries to convince himself he'll be okay if he dies today. As long as Mark and Jimmy are safe, he thinks that maybe he might be. Colton and the mystery man have reached the porch, and passed out of the view of the window. Raylan stands up smoothly, and turns to face Tim. The look on his face is unreadable, and Tim imagines his face it probably set about the same. 

"You think they're here to kill us?" Raylan asks, just as the doorbell goes off. 

"I think they might _try_." Tim tells him. 

"How can we keep Mark and Jimmy safe?" Raylan asks, stepping closer to Tim. He can smell his breath again, coffee and eggs on it this time. He can also smell his own soap on Raylan's skin, and it makes his stomach hurt. 

"There is a hidden panel in that room, locks from the inside. Nobody will find them there." Tim tells him, taking a step himself. His hands brush against Raylan's, and they both flex their fingers under the contact. 

"I'm thinking if I die here I'll have a fair enough amount of regrets." Raylan whispers, his breath hot in Tim's mouth. The doorbell rings again, followed by someone pounding furiously on the door. 

"I guess I'll have a few, too." Tim smiles despite himself. Raylan's hand turns against his, his fingers brushing softly against Tim's knuckles. 

"I don't want to die with one more on the pile, Tim." Raylan says. 

"You don't want to die without kissing me." Tim guesses. "God _damn_ , Raylan Givens, you are smooth." Tim laughs, breathy and soft. Tim is contemplating letting Raylan kiss him when the men at the door start yelling Jimmy's name. He just sighs, leaning his head on Raylan's chest. They both pull their guns silently as Tim turns to open the door. They stay pressed together, Tim leaving his head resting against Raylan's chest as he takes in the sight of Colton Rhodes. 

"It's rude to come to a home uninvited. Who knows what you might have interrupted." Raylan says, using his _I'm-thinking-about-killing-you_ voice. 

"Well my goodness. Don't tell me you're cheating on poor, sweet, young Jimmy?" Colton asks Tim, raising an eyebrow. Colton has his gun held lazily at his side, and the man behind him has his hands in his pocket. 

"You're not threatening to tell him, are you?" Tim asks. He presses closer to Raylan, who responds by bringing his free hand around and resting it atop the curve of Tim's ass. Tim tries his best not to think about it, lest he accidentally set his gun off. 

"Your secret is safe with me." Colton says, watching in amusement as Tim takes a step back, separating himself from Raylan. 

"Where is Jimmy Tolan." the man behind him asks, though he doesn't really phrase it like a question. 

"Why don't you ask Colton here. He's the one that works with the man." Tim says, smiling sweetly at Colton. 

"Colton here works for me." the man says as he steps over the threshold into Tim's home.

"Anybody tell Boyd that?" Raylan asks. 

"I'm only going to ask one more time. Tell me where Jimmy Tolan is." the man says, shifting his hands in his pockets. Tim can tell it isn't a gun in his pocket, but since it's Kentucky, he isn't ruling out a hand grenade. 

"I'm afraid I don't know." Tim tells him nicely. "As you can see, me and my boyfriend were enjoying a nice private moment." he bluffs. 

"Really now?" the man asks, looking between the two of them. "Making out with your guns and badges on?" 

"Well we just can't be bothered to wait long enough to take them off." Raylan smirks. "Besides, it adds to the excitement." 

"I know Jimmy left with you." Colton says. 

"I told you he's not here. It'd be a little awkward if he was." Tim shrugs. 

"You'll excuse me if I don't believe you." Colton says, his gun twitching just a fraction up. 

"Colton, you raise that gun and you end the day in the ground." Raylan warns. "You showing up as my house is bad enough, you want to make it worse?" 

"Your house." Colton repeats. "I thought this was your sidekicks house." 

"Well as he told you already, he's not my sidekick. Ain't nothing too strange about a couple living together, is there?" 

"This is nice and all but if you don't mind, I'm starting to get a bit tired, and I'm still sporting a _little_ bit of a boner, so if we can wrap this up and get you boys on your way that would be just lovely." Tim says. 

"I don't suppose you'd let my boy here make sure Jimmy really isn't here." the man says, again not really phrasing it as a question. 

"Not a chance." Tim says. 

"Go ahead." Raylan says at the same time. 

"Oo, lovers dispute." Colton smiles. 

"If he agrees to leave his weapons with us, he can search anything he wants." Raylan says, and Tim wonders how it would go down if he shot Raylan _himself_.  

"That's fine with me." the mystery man says, even as Colton starts to protest. "Give me your gun, Rhodes. Go see if Crowder's little rat problem is here." 

  

\-- 

  

Raylan waves happily at the men as they retreat down the driveway empty handed. Tim just keeps his gun trained on Colton Rhodes' back, wanting _so_ badly to shoot him. 

"I hope you know the only reason I'm not shooting them is because Scarponi is here and I won't expose him to that shit." Tim says. He finally drops his gun, his arm aching from how tense he's been holding himself. His shoulder pinches something terrible, but he refuses to let Raylan see it. 

"You're going to kill a man in front of your boyfriend?" Raylan teases him. 

"Don't say I don't know how to get you hard." Tim winks. 

  

\-- 

  

Jimmy comes out of the hiding hole with a bloody lip and bite marks on his wrists. Mark has the decency to look sheepish, and he actually apologizes to Jimmy for hurting him. He'd tried his best not to freak out, but the combination of being touched by someone other than Tim and being stuck in a small dark hole had made him a little jumpy. Tim takes him to the bathroom to clean his face, and Chilipepper just sits on the ground at his feet and gives Tim a dirty look. The cat had just started to get used to Jimmy and Raylan when he'd been shoved in the hiding hole and now he was frazzled all over again. 

"Art says we're moving to a safe house. With the exception of Mark here who has to go somewhere else." Raylan says when he steps into the bathroom, just pulling the phone from his ear. He eyes Tim cleaning Jimmy's wounds with distaste. 

"No way in fucking hell." Tim tells him. "You and Jimmy go to a safe house, me and Scarponi go _somewhere else_ together." 

"That's not what Art," Raylan starts, but Tim cuts him off with a dirty look. 

"I don't give a shit what Art wants. I'm not separating from Scarponi for any god damn reason." Tim tells him. 

"Well I'm not getting left alone with this asshole, either." Jimmy snaps, gesturing to Raylan with the hand Tim isn't busy wiping blood from. 

"Well then I guess we all stay together." Mark shrugs. 

"Art won't let that happen." Raylan says. 

"Well then I guess we're at a god damn stand still." Tim grumbles. 

  

WEDNESDAY VIII 

  

Nobody in the office seems to know what to make of Mark. Which is fair, honestly, considering the commotion he'd caused. Nelson had put his had on Mark's back while leading him to Tim's desk, and Mark had reacted. He'd bent Nelson over the desk after smashing his elbow into the man's face. The real commotion had been when another Deputy had pulled a gun on Mark and Tim had pulled his on the Deputy. Screaming had ensued before Tim finally got Mark's attention and freed Nelson from his grip. Now Mark was sitting calmly in Tim's desk chair while Tim watched him through Art's window. 

"How many boyfriends do you have, Tim?" Art asks in amusement. 

"As of yesterday, looks like three." Tim tells him. Raylan let's out a chuckle and Art just raises an eyebrow. "I'm not leaving Scarponi alone. You've seen how he is. I'd call him slightly less than functional when I'm not around." 

"You mind if I ask," Art starts. 

"I do mind." Tim interrupts. "Scarponi is nobodies business but mine. Jimmy made it clear how he feels, and I've made it clear how I do. The three of us stay together if you want Jimmy to stay under protection, it's as simple as that."  

"Well then I guess Jimmy is no longer under protection." Art shrugs. 

"Well then I guess you can't tell him where he can and cannot lay his head at night." Tim smiles sharply. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim stands behind Mark quietly, his hands resting on his shoulders. He's waiting for Raylan and Art to finish up their private meeting. Chillipepper let's out a pathetic meowl from his spot in his carrier under Tim's desk. Tim ignores the cat though, since the last time he's tried to stick his fingers through the mesh he'd gotten them bit. 

Everybody in the office is eyeing Mark, like they expect him to do to Tim what he did to Nelson. Mark just stares back at everyone with a scowl on his face. It's a smug kind of look, the kind that says he invited all challengers. It's a look Tim hadn't seen on him in a while, and it makes pride spread through him. Tim resists the urge to just lean down and drape himself across Mark. He wants to just curl up in the man's lap and take a nap, but he knows doing that in the middle of the office would be in poor form. 

Mark whispers something to him, but Tim doesn't catch it. Tim makes the decision then that he and Mark should sit down together soon and brush up on their Pashto. He misses the option to have a conversation in secret. He misses a lot of things when it comes to Mark, though none of the other ones are fixable. Tim turns around and glances at the wall behind them as he suddenly remembers that the morning he got shot, he'd wanted to open his blinds. He smacks Mark on the arm as he steps away, and Mark spins in his chair to watch what he's doing. Tim opens the blinds, pulling them up with some fanfare, gesturing to the view and beaming at Mark. 

"Beautiful parking lot, Guts." Mark snorts, and Tim just hums in agreement. It's a terrible view, but Tim finds himself appreciating it. He'd almost died the day he decided to look out this window, but he lived to actually see his office's parking lot. It seems to settle in on him for the first time, the reality of it. He could have died, almost did. Raylan being there with him that day is the only reason was still alive. If he'd been on his own when those men shot him, he'd have bled to death in the middle of that road. He'd have died, and Mark would have followed him along. The emotions threaten to bubble up in his throat, but he doesn't let it. 

He wishes he could let it go, really, but now those same men were after Jimmy for some unknown reason, and Tim would gladly let them finish the job on himself to keep Jimmy safe. He didn't even know why, not really. Passed the guy's abs, Tim had no idea why he cared so much about Jimmy. He'd made Jimmy's life more complicated than he deserved, and now they both had to deal with it. 

"I think it's a decent enough view." Tim says. 

"Everything is a beautiful view when Tim's in the picture." Raylan says as he steps up to the desk. He rests his hand on the armrest of Mark's chair a little to close for Tim's comfort. Mark just snorts out a laugh though, looking up at Raylan with an eyebrow raised. 

"That is the cheesiest god damn thing I've ever heard a man say." Mark tells Raylan. 

"I will admit I'm usually smoother." Raylan smiles at Tim. 

  

\-- 

  

Chillipepper sprints out of his carrier like his bushy little tail is on fire. He runs a few circles around the hotel room before climbing up on one of the beds and staring wide eyed at Tim. Mark sets his bag on the bed next to the cat and starts to dig through it unhappily. They wouldn't let Tim or Mark go home to pack their own bags, and some random Deputy Marshal touching his shit had seemed to give Mark anxiety. The bag Jimmy had was filled with Tim's own shit, since he'd refused to let the officers who were sent to get their stuff know where he lived. 

"How funny is this?" Jimmy laughs, holding up the shirt he'd pulled out of his bag for Tim to see. It was Jimmy's shirt, which had been sitting on the top of Tim's dresser since he'd cleaned it. 

"It looked better on me, give it back." Tim joked, making to grab the shirt from Jimmy's hands. 

"Well you know I looked pretty good in yours." Jimmy says, shooting Raylan a look over Tim's shoulder. Raylan was just standing in the doorway, since Art had tasked him with just dropping them off and then leaving. He didn't seem to keen on the _leaving_ part of the plan, though. 

"Jimmy, unless you intend on actually sleeping with Tim, in which case I will shoot you, you might stop pushing your luck." Raylan says. 

" _You_ stop treating me like I'm your property before I shoot you." Tim scoffs over his shoulder. "I'm not your boyfriend and if I let Jimmy put his dick in me it's none of your business." 

"If anybody sticks their dick in you can you do it in the bathroom? I'm all for you getting laid but I don't actually want to see that shit again." Mark says, pulling his little leather notebook out of his pack and hugging it to his chest like it was a baby. 

"Fucking _again_?" Jimmy asks, letting out a laugh of disbelief. 

"I told you about that blowjob?" Tim prompts, keeping vague for Raylan's sake. "Scarponi was sitting right next to us." 

"I was mostly busy watching the target while they went at it." Mark shrugged. "Couldn't stop my curiosity when it was the other guys turn though, caught a glimpse of Guts with a dick in his mouth despite myself." 

"I don't suppose you're an artist, are you?" Raylan asks. 

"No, why?" Mark frowns. 

"I was hoping you could draw a picture. I'm dying to know what Tim looks like with a dick in his mouth."


	17. Oh Raylan please, please tell me

THURSDAY VIII 

  

Tim is laying on his side in the hotel bed with Chillipepper curled up against the small of his back. The cat is a warm, comforting presence, and he feels himself at risk of falling asleep. Jimmy is laying on the second bed across from him, scowling at the muted TV like it's going to give him some kind of answer. Tim isn't sure what is happening in the kid's head, but he knows it can't be happy. Jimmy hadn't wanted to be pulled away from Boyd, but Tim had taken the choice away from him. AUSA Vasquez had deemed him useless as a CI, which seemed to really annoy Jimmy the most. He'd been an informant for all of a few days, and he was now afraid Boyd might kill him for it, and he didn't even have a thank you to show for it. It had to be frustrating, and Tim almost felt bad for getting the kid into this. 

"He wants to die." Jimmy says suddenly, startling Tim from his thoughts.  

"Excuse me?" Tim tries to sound firm, but he yawns halfway through. He'd been awake for too long, hadn't slept at all the night before. Nelson was outside, but Tim didn't trust him to keep his own dick safe, let alone Jimmy and Mark. Whoever it was that wanted Jimmy, they didn't seem like the kind who Nelson could handle. 

"Mark. I read his diary. Most of it is talking about how much he loves you and how he wants to die." Jimmy shrugs. He gestures towards Mark's little notebook, which is sitting on the table in front of the TV. Tim had never been allowed to so much as touch it. 

"When the fuck did you," Tim starts, "why did you," Tim cuts himself off with a groan, scrubbing his hands across his face. Mark is in the shower right now, humming just loud enough to be heard over the water. If Mark finds out that Jimmy read that notebook though, Tim isn't sure how he'll react. Tim doesn't like to think of what would happen in Mark and Jimmy fought. He doesn't know where he'd end up in that, really. In the middle somewhere, taking hits for them both. 

"Last night, when you were in the shower and he was asleep. It's really depressing shit, dude. He literally says he can't wait until you decide to give up on him so that he can die without hurting you. The man is sick in the head." Jimmy says.  

"You're not telling me anything I didn't already know, Jimmy. I know him." Tim says. It's not really true though. Tim hadn't though Mark _actively_ wanted to die. He'd just thought that he didn't _actively_ _care_ about living. Tim had been trying to find ways to make Mark care, but he knows now that he failed. 

"Yeah, well. I told you before I don't see why you deal with that. It still doesn't make any sense to me. Less, actually, now that I now how wacko the guy really is. What's the point in saving a dude who doesn't want to be saved?" Jimmy scoffs. 

"You didn't want me to save you, either, Jimmy." Tim snaps. It gets him a wide eyed look, like Jimmy is hurt by what he said. Tim almost hopes he is. He doesn't talk to anybody about Mark, and he's _never_ stood for people insulting him. It causes him some discomfort when he realizes that he's only letting Jimmy slide on talking this way about Mark because he's _Jimmy_. Anybody else said shit like that about Mark, after disrespecting Mark's privacy, and Tim would have put them through the wall. 

"Yeah, and look where you and your white horse got me. Stuck in protective custody, with a crazy person who has a death wish, and _Mark_." Jimmy grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest like he's the one who has been insulted. 

"I'm sorry, Jimmy. I didn't want this to happen. You think I planned for this to go this wrong?" Tim sighs. Jimmy makes a noise in his throat Tim doesn't understand and then just turns over, putting his back to Tim.  

  

\-- 

  

 **Outgoing [1345]** : It's okay if I'm grossly unprofessional with you, right? 

 **Captain** **Sam**   **[1345]** : Is Sergeant Scarponi alright? 

 **Outgoing [1346]** : He is. I'm not. You said I'm not your patient, but I can't exactly ask anybody else for advice. You seem good at it. 

 **Captain Sam**   **[1347]** : You're right this is grossly unprofessional, but like you said, you ain't my client. I'm not usually in the business of giving away free advice. That's like a hooker giving away blowjobs. 

 **Outgoing [1347]** : And I'M being grossly unprofessional? 

 **Captain Sam**   **[1348]** : Not my client! Tell me what's up though. 

 **Outgoing [1348]** : How much of the situation with Jimmy and Raylan has Mark told you? And btw I'm pissed that he told you about Wish Wash. Should have mentioned that when you brought it up so casually. Rude. 

 **Captain Sam**   **[1349]** : He's given me written permission to discuss his progress with you, but not the details of our conversations. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1349]** : but it's YOUR life, right? He told me everything he knows about it. You want Raylan's dick, but he wants your heart so you're like, hell no. You want Jimmy's dick too but he's straight so he's like, hell no.  Plus he's a criminal? And you're supposed to be arresting him or something but you kissed him instead? I mean, back to that grossly unprofessional shit, man.  

 **Outgoing [1350]** : I was never investigating Jimmy, and he's mostly criminal-adjacent these days anyway. And I never said I wanted Raylan's dick. Except to Raylan. Which in hindsight was kind of mean, wasn't it? 

 **Captain Sam** **[1351]** : Telling the dude who is in love with you WOULD bang him but you're not going to? Yeah, in my professional opinion, that sounds like a dick move.  

 **Outgoing [1351]** : But I can't help that I don't feel the same, right? It'd be worse if I DID sleep with him, gave him something he wanted and then left him anyway, later? 

 **Captain Sam**   **[1352]** : Or maybe you'd get your head out of your ass and realize how you DO feel. 

 **Outgoing [1353]** : Are you trying to tell me you know how I do feel, doc? 

 **Captain Sam**   **[1353]** : I'm telling you that if you didn't care about this guy, it would be a non-issue. If you really JUST wanted to bone him, you'd bone him. You've slept with people since your fiance died, right? 

 **Outgoing [1353]** : Yeah. 

 **Captain Sam** **[1354]** : And how did it go? Did you break their hearts? Did you WORRY about breaking their hearts?  

 **Outgoing [1354]** : None of them were in love with me. It was just sex for both of us, always. I've never had someone love me, not since Arthur. 

 **Captain Sam**   **[1354]** : Is Arthur Wishwash's real name? Because I like that a hell of a lot better. The fuck is Wishwash anyway? 

 **Outgoing [1354]** : Wish Wash, called him that because he was in the Air Force before he joined the Army. Then he was going to be a medic, but went to officer school instead. Then after about four days with the 101st he decided he wanted to join the Rangers. He was wishy washy about what he wanted to do, even as he was doing it. 

 **Captain Sam**   **[1355]** : Except about you. 

 **Outgoing [1355]** : Talking about him isn't helping. Get back to where you think you know me better than I do. 

 **Captain Sam**   **[1355]** : I do, man. It's literally my job, you know. I know what I saw in your face, when I was talking about Steve. I know how people are, when they're scared. You, SGM, are scared shitless. And it ain't FOR this Raylan guy, it's OF him. You're terrified to move on from your wishy washy fiance, and so when the opportunity to do that presents itself in the form of what I am told is one very fine looking cowboy, you run. 

 **Outgoing [1356]** : So you're literally telling me the reason I don't want to be with Raylan, is because I do want to be with Raylan? 

 **Captain Sam**   **[1356]** : Yeah, dumbass! 

 **Outgoing [1357]** : And that's supposed to make sense?! 

 **Captain Sam** **[1357]** : Just think about it. Really THINK about how you feel about this dude. 

 **Outgoing [1401]** : Fuck. 

 **Captain Sam**   **[1401]** : Yep.  

  

\-- 

  

Tim is still staring at his phone in horror when Raylan shows up. Tim doesn't look up at him, just keeps looking angrily at Sam's texts, hoping the man can feel his rage from the other end. He wanted Sam to tell him how he could let Raylan down gently. He hadn't wanted to have his whole perception of the situation picked up and shaken around.  

"You know I read all of that over your shoulder, right?" Mark asks, hooking his chin over Tim's shoulder, as if to demonstrate. 

"Fuck you. And fuck him. Fuck this. Fuck _me_." Tim groans, throwing his weight backwards. His back meets Mark's chest, and they both go down. 

"Who is fucking who? What did I miss?" Raylan asks, gliding passed Tim's bed like he owns the place. He's brought them supplies, and three plastic bags dangle from one of his hands as he steps into Tim's view. Swinging his ridiculous hips and making a vague gesture with his stupidly long fingers in the direction of Tim's phone. 

"None of your god damn business." Tim growls, and Mark laughs. Tim can feel it vibrate his body where he's pressed up against Mark's chest, and he rolls away from the man with a groan. He buries his face into his pillow, wonders how hard he'd have to press to smother himself with it. 

"Tim is having a mental breakdown of some kind. I watched it happening, it was a lot of eyebrows shooting up and down and angry typing and then I think his soul left his body or something." Jimmy tells Raylan. Tim can hear the sounds of Raylan digging through the plastic bags. 

"Just shut up. Okay? Everybody shut the fucking fuck up." Tim shouts into the pillow.  

"I think it's sweet." Mark says. Tim knows exactly what he's talking about, and he flings a hand out randomly. He feels satisfaction when it collides sharply with Mark's face, and the man squawks in annoyance. 

"I'm just gonna let myself believe that I don't want to know." Raylan says. Tim hears his boots on the carpet as he starts to walk closer to the bed, and Tim let's out a noise that even he doesn't recognize. 

"Go away, Raylan. Go, away. Thank you for the food, now leave. Fast. Out, _out_." Tim says, waving his arms behind his back, flapping them in what he hopes is Raylan's direction. 

"Tim?" Raylan asks, and he uses his _I-wish-I-could-help_ voice and it makes Tim want to punch him. 

"No. Out. If you don't leave right now I swear to _fuck_ I will have sex with Boyd Crowder and send you a video of it." Tim snaps. 

He isn't surprised at the speed with which Raylan leaves the hotel room. 

  

\-- 

  

Art won't let Tim leave the hotel. Which is truly, horrifically unfair since Lyman Berger and his bosses have tried to kill Raylan just as much as they've tried to kill Tim. It's the condition, though. If Tim wants Jimmy and Mark under protection, he has to be under it too. He wanted to be the one _protecting_ Jimmy and Mark, but Art didn't give a shit. He was punishing Tim, and Tim knew it. Art is angry, a hell of a lot angrier than he's showing, and having Tim stashed away in a hotel where he doesn't have to look at him is probably top of Art's list of happy things. 

Tim, however, is miserable. He set his rifle up under a blanket by the window when they first got here, and he keeps pacing in front of it. Every time Mark goes into the bathroom Tim pulls the cloth away to stare through the scope, looking at the same expanse of lifeless Lexington nothingness over and over again. He wants to go outside, he wants to _do something_. He wants to track Lyman Berger down and break every bone in his body. He wants to find out who he works for, track _them_ down, and make them watch as he breaks every bone in the body of someone _they_ love. His anger is finally catching up to him. It blocks out the fear, the sadness, the trauma of almost dying. It blocks out the worry for Jimmy, the worry for Raylan. All he has is his anger, and he wants to use it. He wants to kill someone, badly. The urge always sits just under his skin, but this time, it's pushing though. Cracks are forming in Tim and his anger is ripping them wide.  

He wants to leave the hotel. He wants to kill something. He wants to kill Lyman Berger for driving Jimmy off the road that night and causing him pain. He wants to kill _everyone_ in the Dixie Mafia for having Raylan kidnapped, for shooting him. He wants to kill Colton Rhodes for making Jimmy afraid, for coming into his home. For _existing_. He wants to kill Boyd Crowder for lying, for using Jimmy, for not seeming to care whether or not Jimmy got hurt. 

Tim's mind catches on that, pauses, and rewinds. He realizes it's true, and it almost surprises him. 

He wants to kill Boyd Crowder. 

  

FRIDAY VIII 

  

Tim sits in the hard, unforgiving hotel chair and stares down the scope at the figure of a woman standing on the sidewalk. She's looking down at her phone, and Tim lines up the shot. She'd be dead before Jimmy even realized Tim had pulled the trigger. He slides his finger along the trigger guard, circling it gently. He makes a soft noise under his breath, imitating gunfire. He imagines the woman lying dead in the street as he watches her lift her head, and walk out of his sights. 

Mark is in the bathroom because Tim told him to go in there. The door is cracked open enough that Mark can see the TV from where he's laying in the tub, but he can't see Tim with a gun in his hands. Neither Tim or Mark knew if Mark would be able to handle it. The only time he'd seen Tim pick up a gun since they got home was he'd woken Tim up from a nightmare and Tim had pulled the Baby Eagle out from under his pillow. Mark's reaction had been pretty bad, and Tim never wanted it to happen again. He never wanted to see Mark in nothing but his boxers, belly down on the floor, screaming out echoes of himself, trying to get Tim a target that wasn't there. 

"I could take care of him." Jimmy says from behind him. Tim jumps at the sound of his voice and smashes his shoulder into the butt of the gun. It sends pain shooting through his chest and he can't stop the noise that escapes his throat. 

"Fuck, Boy Band. What the fuck." Tim chokes out, reaching up to grab at his right shoulder like he can force the pain to stop. 

"Mark. Me and him can go squirrel away somewhere, I can keep him safe." Jimmy is suddenly standing in front of Tim, reaching out to rest his hand on Tim's shoulder. Their fingers curl together, and Jimmy presses his thumb into the muscles over Tim's clavicle, massaging it. 

"No." Tim snaps out. There isn't much heat behind his words though, especially not since he leans forward into Jimmy's hand. 

"You don't need to be in protective custody, and you don't want to be, either. Me and Mark can hide, I can take care of us. I'm sure he'd be fine with it." Jimmy soothes. "You'd be fine with it, right, buddy?" Jimmy calls to Mark. 

"You bet!" Mark calls back. 

"Come on. You can get back out there, it's been over a month since you got shot, you're due for a second round." Jimmy says. Tim wishes he had seen what Jimmy was about to say coming, because he would have punched him in the teeth to stop him. 

"What the fuck?" Mark shouts. Tim hears him scrambling out from the bathtub he'd been lounging in. Tim stands up to try and get the gun covered back up, but knocks it over instead. It scatters across the floor, smashing into Jimmy's shins just as Mark steps back into the room. Chilipepper had been in the bathroom with him, and Tim can hear his little nails scraping along the tiles, along with a loud hissing that tells him Mark had just dumped the cat without ceremony. 

"The fuck?" Jimmy shouts, pulling away from Tim, going wide eyed when Mark grabs Tim by the front of his shirt. 

"You said car accident!" Mark shouts, spitting into Tim's face. 

"Scarponi, calm down." Tim flinches. He reaches up to grab Mark's wrists, and the man's hands are shaking where they twist into the fabric of Tim's shirt. 

"You lied to me. Fuck! Guts, what the fuck. You got fucking _shot_." Mark lets go of Tim suddenly, hovering his hands over Tim's chest, like he's afraid to touch him. "You got shot." 

"No, no. Jimmy doesn't know what he's talking about, okay. I got shot at, which caused the car crash. Nobody shot me, they just tried to. They didn't shoot me, Scarponi." Tim lies, bringing his hands up to hold Mark's face in his hand. His shoulder still aches, but he ignores it. 

"Take off your shirt." Mark says, his eyes going hard. 

"What? Scarponi, come on. Listen to me." Tim soothes, rubbing his thumbs against Mark's cheekbones. 

"You haven't been taking your shirt off in front of me. I didn't want to look at your scar, so I didn't. I avoided looking at your chest, but now I want to see." Mark scolds, and Tim racks his brain for something to say. Mark knows what a bullet wound looks like, which is exactly why Tim has been sleeping with a shirt on since he got out of rehab. 

"Scarponi," Tim starts, but is interrupted by the door opening. 

"Is everything all right in here?" Nelson asks, poking his head in. 

"Fuck off, Nelson!" Tim and Mark shout at the same time. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim scoots backward on the bed until his shoulder blades press against Mark's. He's hurt, but not surprised, when Mark scoots away from him. Jimmy is asleep in his own bed across from them, but Tim and Mark have been lying awake for hours. Mark was still angry, and the screaming match had gotten bad enough that Nelson had actually found the balls to stand up to Tim and tell them to knock it off. Mark had all but ripped Tim's shirt from his body, and had burst into tears when he'd seen the scar on Tim's shoulder. He'd touched it gently, but pulled away like it burned him. Since then, he'd been refusing to let Tim touch him. Tim doesn't even remember the last time they'd shared a bed without being spooned together. It makes him feel cold. It doesn't help that Chillipepper has defected, and decided he likes Jimmy now. Tim can see where the cat is curled up on top of Jimmy's chest with Jimmy's hand draped over his furry little back, both of them looking happy as clams. 

Tim is distracted from his wallowing by his phone vibrating on the night stand. 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0124]** : how are you doing? 

 **Outgoing [0125]** : Sleeping, until you interrupted.  

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0125]** : yeah, bullshit. nelson told us what happened. mark okay? 

 **Outgoing [0126]** : We're all good here. Stir crazy. 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0126]** : try spending a few nights in the smelly trunk of a car 

 **Outgoing [0127]** : Christ on a dick, don't tell me you're going to start milking that. 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0127]** : might as well 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0127]** : i'm still worried about you though. it's been a tough couple of months for you, i want to be sure you're doing okay 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0128]** : i know damn well you didn't fall asleep 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0128]** : you want to tell me why you freaked out on me yesterday?  

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0129]** : i think i'm having nightmares about you and boyd by the way 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0130]** : really putting a damper on the usual sex dreams i have about you 

 **Outgoing [0131]** : Are you coming to the hotel tomorrow? 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0131]** : if you want me to 

 **Outgoing [0132]** : Bring some coffee. Actual coffee. 

 **R** **aylan** **Given** **s** **[0132]** : anything you want. 

Tim slides his phone under his pillow, and pretends like he doesn't notice the smile he has on his face.


	18. Help Jimmy find a clue to life

SATURDAY VIII

 

Tim lets Raylan into the hotel room, and the man doesn't even have time to say good morning before the window shatters. The force of the bullet hitting sends glass spraying through the room, scattering it across Tim's face. He closes his eyes against the pain, and when he opens them again, it's just in time to see Jimmy fall. 

  

\-- 

  

Nobody has any idea what to say to Tim, and Tim is glad for it, because he doesn't want to talk. Art, Tim is sickly satisfied to see, looks _guilty_. He should, seeing as this is his fault. Everybody seems to still be under the impression that Jimmy was Tim's boyfriend, and the tears that are still studiously dripping down his face aren't really doing anything to dissuade them of that assumption. 

"There was only one shot. They were probably watching, waiting for Tolan to step into sight." Rachel says, her voice calm, as she's running her thumb soothingly against Tim's knuckles. Tim has his eyes closed, but he _knows_ everyone is looking at him. He can feel it, and it's making him angry. 

"There shouldn't have been a sight _to_ get. Why were the curtains open?" Vasquez asks.  

"Deputy Gutterson set up his rifle in the widow, the curtain got caught on the barrel." Rachel tells them. Tim reaches up to pick at one of the scabs on his cheek, feeling it start to sting, blood mixing with his tears to trail down his face. 

"He wasn't authorized to," Vasquez starts to say, but they get cut off by Raylan, who has his _I'm-going-to-kill-you_ voice on at full blast. 

"He was protecting someone he loved, because your office was _too fucking_ _good_ to do it for him, when the man clearly needed it. This is on _you_ , asshole. Tim did what he had to, while you were busy sitting around fingering yourself." Raylan snaps. Tim doesn't know if he's grateful or not. 

"They followed _you_." Vasquez tells Raylan, sounding accusatory. 

"Now, we don't know that." Rachel says, her thumb skipping across Tim's knuckles as she tenses. 

"Where is my cat?" Tim asks, cutting the conversation off. He opens his eyes, feels them burning. His vision is fuzzy, but he can make out Raylan, standing a little too close, looking down at him apologetically. 

"Winona took him, she has him in her office." Raylan tells him. Tim just nods, sliding out of his chair. Nobody tries to stop him when he walks out of the conference room. Right now, he just wants to go to Winona's office, curl up under her desk, and hug his cat until someone comes to tell him where he's supposed to go now. His house wasn't safe, the hotel wasn't safe, and he had nowhere else to go. Mark had been sent back to Falcon Rehab, where he'd need to be after everything. It was a sick joke, really. Mark gets well enough to come home, just to be in a room that had a shot fired into it. It made Tim feel disgusted with himself. Mark _deserved better_ than what Tim was giving him. Tim was coming to realize he wasn't any good at keeping anyone safe. He was fucking _useless_. Everybody who had ever loved him, depended on him, trusted him, they'd all lost so much. Wish Wash was dead, Milkovich was FUBAR, Mark was unstable, and Jimmy, fucking _Jimmy_.  

Jimmy had been awake when Tim crawled over to him. He'd looked up at Tim, and he'd looked so fucking scared. He'd been pleading with his eyes, asking Tim to do something. Tim had just sat there. It was like some sick fucking deja vu. He's pulled Jimmy's head into his lap, reaching down to try and hold his guts in his body where a bullet had ripped through him. It had felt so horrifically familiar, Tim had slipped, whispered _I love you_. 

For the second time in his life, Tim had held a man he cared about in his arms, and had no choice but to watch him die. 

  

\-- 

  

Winona has a couch in her office, and Tim climbs onto it without asking for permission. Chillipepper comes over to him immediatley, curling up against his chest. Winona perches on the arm of the couch for a while, running her fingers through Tim's hair. 

"Was he, uh," she pauses, her fingers catching on a knot at the base of Tim's neck. "Art said he was your boyfriend." 

"No. He didn't want me." Tim says. He figures that tells her enough, and the way she hums tells him she understands it pretty well. So he guesses she knows that he's gay, now. It's not an added number, though. Jimmy is fucking _dead_ , so he doesn't count anymore. And honestly, Tim is sure by now his sexuality is just common knowledge. Art had just casually dropped it into conversation with _Winona_ , apparently. He's just going to assume everyone knows. 

"I'm so sorry, Tim." Winona says. Her free hand passes in front of Tim's face, as she moves to pet Chillipepper too. It's almost funny, because her hand moves over the cat's head the exact same way it does over Tim's. Her nails are painted a light pink color, and Tim finds it soothing. _Winona_ is soothing. Tim can see why Raylan and Gary had fought over her for so long. She was easy to love. 

"It's my fault he's dead." Tim says. He expects Winona to argue with him, but she just stays quiet, so he continues. "I'm the only reason he turned on Boyd in the first place. I'm the one who exposed him for turning on Boyd. I'm the one who put him in danger. Besides, I'm the one who didn't get the _fucking_ curtain closed." 

Winona just hums, doesn't say a fucking word. Tim thinks he loves her a lot, for that. Tim had come to expect that most people would have responded to that with _oh, don't think like that_. Winona just let him think like that. It was the truth, anyway, and everyone probably knew it. Besides, Winona probably had some practice dealing with men like Tim. Raylan was little like Tim, after all. 

Chillipepper starts to purr after a little while, seeming to finally accept a stranger touching him. It's the sound, combined with Winona's hand against his scalp, that lulls Tim to sleep. 

  

\-- 

  

"You're not going anywhere near this case." Art sighs. "Honestly, I don't even know what case you _are_ on, at this point. I've pulled you off shit and put you back on shit so much, I have no fucking clue." 

"I'm on nothing." Tim shrugs. "Just being honest, you put a gun in my hand right now and someone ends up dead within the hour. Maybe not even a criminal." 

"Well I appreciate the honesty." Art says. Tim is too fucking tired to lie. He needs to go home, so he can have his incoming meltdown in peace. Jimmy is dead. Jimmy is _fucking dead_ , and Tim had been to blame. He'd fucking _felt it_ happen, felt the life go out of Jimmy. He feels sick. 

"I quit," Tim says, suddenly. It startles Art, startles AUSA Vasquez where the man is leaning in the doorway. 

"Now, Tim, I know this is," Art starts. 

"You don't know shit, Art. I'm sorry, but you don't." Tim shakes his head, lets out a laugh that sounds horrible in his ears. "I can't do this job, anymore. I, honestly, don't think I ever could. I was just good at pretending. I know you've been waiting for my powder keg to blow, well this is it, it's blown. I'm slipping, Art. I'd like to get out before I fucking kill myself." 

  

\-- 

  

Tim is issued a new phone, since Boyd still had his old number and it's now considered compromised. He inputs all of his old contacts, his fingers shaking as he types in Jimmy's. Tim sits in the guest bedroom at Winona's, and he cries. He's pretty sure he's done nothing _but_ cry for the passed twenty four hours. Chilli is pacing around in front of him, screeching up at Tim like he wants so desperately to help. 

Winona knocks on the door twice, calls Tim's name gently. He ignores her. 

Tim hears Raylan's voice drift up from downstairs, and is glad that the man doesn't come up. 

More voices, people discussing how best to keep Tim under protection. Raylan is under protection too, Rachel being assigned to trail along after him. Tim remembers when that had been his job, and how he'd first realized he was attracted to Raylan while doing it.  

Sam calls him, probably to update him on Mark. He calls again, and again. He leaves voicemails. Tim ignores them. 

Tim doesn't pick up his phone until it's dark out, and he hits a few buttons to place a call. 

"You know who this is, and you know what to do." Jimmy's voice says. Tim hangs up before the beep. 

  

\-- 

  

Rachel is sitting in the kitchen when Tim fumbles his way in. She just looks up at him, smiling sympathetically. Tim wants to shoot her. 

"Why are you here?" Tim asks. His voice sounds like it's being pulled out of his body through a fucking sieve. It hurts. 

"Raylan is here. Sleeping in the den." Rachel says, nodding in that direction. 

"Tell him to stay away from me." is all Tim says in response. He'd come down to get coffee, but he decides it's not worth it. He just goes back upstairs. 

  

\-- 

  

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1213]** : Sergeant Scarponi has filled me in on everything. I'm so sorry. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1215]** : I'm here if you need to talk. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1346]** : Sergeant Scarponi has been fully admitted, pro bono. Don't worry about any of that. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1427]** : He's not doing well. I know you probably aren't feeling so great yourself right now, but he really needs you. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1431]** : I've told him I've spoken to you so he'll stop worrying so much. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1432]** : I hate lying like that. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1433]** : If you turn up dead and he finds out I lied I'm gonna be really mad. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1604]** : It's on the news. Most channels.  

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1606]** : They're running his name. They called him an informant, said he was killed while assisting the Marshal service. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1607]** : Channel 4 has his picture. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1607]** : He was beautiful. I'm so sorry, Tim. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1756]** : Scarponi really needs you. We had to sedate him. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1758]** : He thought he was back in Sangin. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1809]** : I'm worried about you, Tim. Not as a therapist, either. 

 **Captain** **Sam** **[1811]** : Call me, please, as soon as you're up for it.


	19. I like Mark when he's wrapped in a sweater.

SUNDAY, 2010 

  

Mark stops suddenly at Tim's side, raising his weapon. Tim stills, his eyes darting around to try and catch on to what it is that made Mark pause. He doesn't see anything, doesn't hear anything. The only thing he smells is the way the burnt out buildings around them still stink like death and fire.  

"Something, eight o'clock." Mark says, scrunching up his face in what looks like confusion. Mark moves towards where he apparently had heard a sound, and Tim follows behind him. They move slow, Mark's hulking figure shading Tim from the sun. It's only when they get just a few feet from the twisted a burnt frame of what used to be a car that the sound comes again, and Tim hears it too this time. 

"Holy fuck." Tim drops his weapon, letting the strap hold it at his side. He pushes passed Mark, sprinting the last few feet. He sticks his hands into the wreckage of the car, slicing his fingers immediately on the edge of some ripped open metal. The sound comes again, this time more urgent, and Tim is sure that it's because he's disturbing this place now. 

"Guts, what the hell?" Mark hisses, coming to stand behind Tim's back. "We're supposed to be moving through, we don't have time for this." 

"I'm not leaving it here." Tim hisses back. The sound again, frightened, full of pain, this time. "Hold on, hold on. I'm going to get you out of there." Tim soothes. 

Mark huffs in annoyance, takes a step back. Tim keeps digging. He drops to his knees, to get a better angle, reaches through where the car's door used to be. He tears the skin on his hands, metal catching on his sleeve to rip at his arms too. He can feel the blood pooling between his fingers, making the soot stick to his skin. His hands brush against something soft, pushed far under what used to be the drivers seat. He wraps his hand around it, even as it kicks, hissing and screeching. It yells like it's in pain, and Tim feels sick to his stomach at the thought that he might be hurting it. 

"I got you, I got you." Tim says softly, pulling the kitten out of the wrecked car. It's so black with soot he has no idea what color it is, but it's tiny, made even smaller by the fact that it's emaciated. It screams in his face, kicking with it's back feet, scratching up his already bloody palms.  

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. Now what are you you gonna do with it?" Mark asks, making a noise of displeasure in his throat.  

"Fuck if I know." Tim shrugs. He pulls the cat close to his chest, cooing at it. It kicks a few more times, but once he stops squeezing it and just cradles the little thing to his chest, the kitten finally calms down. It looks up at him with wet eyes, swollen and red. It's probably sick, definitely starving. Tim doesn't see any blood though, and when he works his fingers around the little body he doesn't feel any broken bones. 

"We gotta move, Guts." Mark insists.  

"Yeah, yeah. Keep your pants on, Pinkie Pie." Tim says, standing up from the ground. His knee pinches when he does, and he looks down to see that he'd been kneeling on a piece of metal, and it had cut through his pants to stab into his leg. He follows along after Mark, cradling the kitten to his chest, and wondering what the hell he's going to do with it. He needs his hands, can't just keep carrying the little thing. For now it's fine, though. The kitten is shaking against his hands, and Tim just rubs a thumb between it's little shoulder blades. 

  

\-- 

  

The kitten bites him so hard he thinks for a second that he just lost a finger. It doesn't matter how many times Tim tells the little guy it's for his own good, the kitten just does _not_ want a bath. It's hisses are actually pretty terrifying for a thing of it's stature. It doesn't help that the kitten jumps and scrambles every time the sound of explosions or gunshots can be heard. Tim doesn't blame the little thing. It had a town blow up around it, Tim is honestly just amazed the thing survived. 

"That thing is feisty." Dipstick says, leaning into the tent to peek at Tim. He's got the kitten mostly cleaned off now, has discovered that he's orange under all that soot. 

"Sure is." Tim grumbles, working more water into the kitten's back legs. He gets more hisses, as the kitten tries to turn around and nip at him some more. 

"Well, well." Lieutenant Vencatasawmy laughs, stepping around Dipstick to get into the tent. "Who is that chilli pepper?" he asks. 

"He's a chilli pepper, alright." Tim groans. The kitten finally gets his mouth around Tim's flesh again, biting down hard enough to make Tim yelp.  

  

SUNDAY VIII 

  

Mark is still sedated, so Tim just sits at the side of his bed, half listening to the nurse explain to him what is going to happen. Mark had hit Sam, bad enough that he drew blood. Sam wasn't angry but it was still something that had to be addressed. Sam was going to be in soon to talk to him, and Tim was already tuning the nurse out. He didn't care. He just wanted to see Mark, to touch him, to remind himself that he was here.  He doesn't know how long he sits there, rolling Mark's hand around in his own, before Sam shows up. 

"I was really starting to worry before they told me you were here." Sam says. Tim looks up at him and cringes when he sees the butterfly bandages, standing out like neon signs on the man's dark skin. His eyebrow and lip, it looks like, took the most damage. 

"I shouldn't have just left him here like that. I knew it was a bad idea. Everything was just," Tim lets himself trail off. 

"Please, don't try to apologize. Not for any of this." Sam moves to sit on the bed, his hip right next to where Tim is still holding Mark's hand. 

"I have nothing else. Except my fucking _sorry_." Tim laughs. 

"Why do you say that?" Sam asks, eyeing Tim's fingers as they lace through Mark's over and over. 

"Stop shrinking me, asshole." Tim shrugs. Sam opens his mouth to say something else, but cuts himself off with a shout when Chillipepper jumps on the bed. 

"Oh, god! Why is there a cat? You can't have a cat in here." Sam is up and across the room before Tim even sees him move. 

"I have no where else to put him." Tim frowns, watching Sam press himself into the corner as he eyes Chillipepper with distrust. "Holy shit, you're scared of him." 

"No." Sam says, a little to quickly. His back is against the wall, and he looks like he's trying not to move. Chilli just walks across the bed, bumping his head against Tim and Mark's hands where they're entwined. 

"Right. Well he goes where I go for right now. I don't have anywhere to sleep, exactly." Tim shrugs. 

"Uh-huh." Sam says slowly. "Well just, keep it in here. I have uh, things, outside." Sam seems to give up trying to make an excuse, just heads out the door. 

  

\-- 

  

"You're not quitting." is the first thing Raylan says when he sees Tim standing on the other side of his door.  

"Sure. Where is Rachel?" Tim asks, leaning to peek around Raylan. The motel room is empty, nothing but an open bottle of Tim sitting on the floor by the bed to keep Raylan company. 

"Everything is kind of a mess, right now. They pulled all the protection when you ran off to see Mark in the middle of the night last night. Decided we'd regroup later today." Raylan tells him, eyeing the bags at Tim's feet. "Tim?" 

"Why do you love me?" Tim asks, even though that's not at all what he meant to ask. 

"I, what?" Raylan practically stutters, his eyes going a bit wide. Tim knows it's not easy to startle Raylan Givens, but he seems to have done it pretty damn extraordinarily. 

"You said yourself you don't know me, and then tell me you're in love with me. So why, how is does that work?" Tim reaches up and binches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes so he doesn't have to look at Raylan anymore. 

"Because you're soft." Raylan says, then laughs to himself. "but you're also the prickliest son of a bitch I've ever met." Raylan's voice goes soft, longing, and it pushes right against Tim's rib cage when Raylan sighs before continuing. "You have never been impressed with me, not once, not even when I try. You push back, like nobody else ever has with me. You're charming without ever trying to be, you endear everyone around you by being the biggest asshole in the room. And yeah, I didn't know you that well before all this, before Lyman. Which is why I kept telling myself it wasn't love, not really. But, _god_ , Tim, now I see so much more of you. How strong you are, how much you push through every day. How much you care, about Mark, about your fucking cat. You love with your whole self, and you do it sparingly. You reserve it, hold it close to you, so it means even more when you do give it." 

Raylan seems to be done talking then, because silence seeps between them. Tim opens his eyes, and sees Raylan smiling softly down at him. Tim has the sudden, idiotic urge to lean up and kiss him. It's not the first time he's thought about kissing Raylan, but it's the first time it isn't fueled by lust. 

"I need a place to stay." Tim says, his voice breaking. "They won't let me go home." 

"Yeah." Raylan says, his voice dripping with sadness. "You can stay here. You and your little demon cat." 

  

\-- 

  

"You can't quit." Raylan says, again. His voice slurs a little this time, though. He's finished his bottle of booze, and Tim is endlessly grateful that he hadn't offered Tim a sip. He'd have taken it, and the rest of the bottle. Only difference between him and Raylan is once he'd started, he'd not have wanted to stop. He'd have gone out and gotten another bottle, and made a mistake he'd promised himself he'd never make again. Raylan stopped though, and is just laying on the bed, his wife beater bunched up around his waist.  

"I can, and I'm going to." Tim tells him. Tim is sitting on the bed next to Raylan, his hip level with Raylan's head. It's dangerous, maybe. If Raylan turns just a little, shifted his weight just enough, he could get his face in Tim's lap. Tim keeps thinking about that, and it's making his head spin in a way that feels little too much like he _had_ been drinking. 

"No, we both know you're not. This is who you are, Tim. Just like it's who I am. Can't count how many times I told Winona I was gonna quit." Raylan waves his hand in the air, and when when he drops it, it lands on Tim's thigh. He leaves it there, and Tim feels like the back of Raylan's hand is made of metal, burning white hot through his jeans. Tim turns his head to look at Chillipepper, where the cat is laying on the nightstand. He still didn't like Raylan, hadn't warmed up to him like he had with Jimmy.  

Fuck. _Jimmy_. Tim shuts his eyes, forces the man's face from his mind. It hurts. It hurts in a way he would never have expected. Jimmy Tolan was a criminal, a flunky for Boyd Crowder who chose his life and made his mistakes. It didn't stop Tim from caring, didn't stop it from feeling like he'd lost someone. It hurt as badly as it did to sit so close to Raylan. To touch Raylan. He gets that now. Touching Raylan fucking hurts. It burns inside of him, in a way he's only felt once before in his life. Raylan makes him ache. 

"Raylan." Tim whispers. When he looks down, the man is asleep. 

  

MONDAY IX 

  

They release Jimmy's body to Tim that morning. He stares down at the white sheet that still covers Jimmy's face. Tim had refused to let the funeral director lift it.  

"Who is going to give the eulogy?" the director asks, and Tim shakes his head. 

"It's just going to be me." Tim tells him, hates that the man can probably hear the sadness in his voice. 

"Alright, son." the man says, touching the edge of the coffin Jimmy will be placed in. "We'll take good care."  

Tim tears his eyes from Jimmy, focuses on the coffin. It's nice, the nicest they have. It cost about as much as Tim's car had, but he had just nodded absently when they told him. He couldn't afford it, not even close, but he didn't care. Jimmy had deserved so much better than what life had given him. He was owed in death what he'd never had in life. He deserved to have somebody care for him. 

"Is it possible to hire pallbearers?" Tim asks, feeling terrible about it. Terrible that he has to do this alone. Jimmy had no family, Jimmy had nobody who had loved him. Except for Tim. 

"I can have members of my staff do that." he tells Tim, pauses before asking. "Are you sure you want this package? It's a lot, Mr. Gutterson. If it's just you, I don't want you to have to spend so much." 

"It's fine. It's what I want." Tim says, swallows around the lump in his throat. "Just, it's fine. It's fine. I'll see you on Wednesday." 

  

\-- 

  

Tim has six missed calls. Sam, Raylan, a number he's pretty sure is Winona's. He ignores them all, places a phone call of his own. 

"You know who this is, and you know what to do." Jimmy's voice says, harsh, the way he always was. Like he didn't care. Tim ends the call before the beep. 

  

\-- 

  

  

 **Outgoing [1324]** : How is he? 

 **Sam** **Wilson [1324]** : He's still asleep. Probably will be until at least tomorrow. 

 **Sam** **Wilson [1327]** : How are you? 

 **Sam** **Wilson [1342]** : I'll be here if you need me. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim is laying in the bed with the covers pulled over his head when he hears Raylan come in. 

"There is a deputy parked outside." Raylan says, flicking the lights on. Tim just grunts in response.  

He listens to Raylan moving around the room. His boots get kicked off, hit the floor with thuds. His holster makes a hallow sound on the dresser, and Tim hears him checking his gun. His belt jingles, gets thrown across the room into the closet. He walks to the bathroom, shuts the door. The toilet flushes, water runs, and Raylan starts to sing something Tim can't make out. His voice is low, soft as it drifts over Tim. The water shuts off after some amount of time Tim has no idea of. The door opens, and then the bed dips as Raylan sits on the edge, just behind Tim. 

"Tim." Raylan says, using his _I'm-scared-but-don't-want-you-to-notice_ voice. 

"Raylan." Tim grumbles. 

"I love you." Raylan says, stating it like it's just a simple fact, like he's telling Tim the sky is blue. 

"I'm sorry." Tim responds. Raylan laughs softly, before climbing into the bed with Tim. He presses their backs together, and Tim feels Raylan's bare skin against his own. He thinks that he hasn't felt this warm in his entire life. 

  

TUESDAY IX 

  

Everything is laid out on the conference table, and Raylan explains what had happened in painful detail. From the beginning, so everything makes sense and the world seems settled. After the Bennet family all found themselves dead or in jail, Boyd Crowder raided all of their stash houses and took all of the weed. He hired men to move it, one of them being Lyman Berger. Lyman got pulled over with it in his truck, and killed the state trooper who had tried to tell him he was going sixty five in a fifty. Lyman took the weed to the DixieMafia, and when Boyd found out, he got angry. Around this time Raylan and Tim questioned Lyman, and he told the Dixie Mafia about them poking around. Dixie Mafia, loving Raylan Givens as much as they do, put an open bounty out on him and Tim. Raylan had got jumped, Tim had got shot, and things had started to get complicated. Boyd started up a war with Lyman Berger in retaliation of being double crossed, and had used Tim to feed information into the Marshal service to try and keep them off Dixie Mafia's tail so he could go after them himself. He'd told Jimmy nothing of his plans, and he'd brought Colton Rhodes in without Jimmy knowing why. Colton Rhodes was Dixie Mafia, and when Jimmy decided to inform on Colton, Dixie Mafia didn't take too kindly to it. They'd had him killed, and Lyman and Boyd were both lying low and keeping their heads down in the aftermath, so far. It was pretty simple, cut and dry. Dixie Mafia knew where Tim lived, probably still wanted to kill both him and Raylan but were unlikely to make a bold move at this point. 

"This is the biggest shit show of my god damn career." Art sighs when Raylan finishes talking. Everybody in the room was pretending like they didn't notice the way Tim flinched every time someone said Jimmy's name. It was nice of them, even if Tim really didn't want to be here. 

"So what are we doing?" Rachel asks, making Vasquez laugh. 

"You're doing nothing. Dixie Mafia is Bureau territory, and your office has kicked enough hornets nests for a lifetime on this one. You stay out of it, unless Crowder or Berger actually _do_ something." he tells them, and Raylan makes a noise under his breath that sounded venomous. 

"Jimmy Tolan was in our custody when he died, we have to see that through." Raylan says. Tim swallows, is sure everyone in the room can hear it. It's painful. 

"No, he was not. Deputy Gutterson was under Marshal protection, Jimmy just happened to be there." Vasquez says. Tim twitches towards the man, and everyone seems to freeze. He's sure they can read on his face that he'd stopped himself just short of getting out of his seat and strangling the AUSA. 

"I still work here." Tim says, and everyone frowns at him. "I ain't signed anything yet, so I still work here. Colton Rhodes is still my case. Open warrant against him beating that man in Maryland still stands. He came to my home, threatened Raylan and me." 

"Yes, all of that is true." Art says, his voice perfectly calm, masking everything. 

"I'm bringing him in." Tim says. Art and Vasquez both open their mouths to protest, but Tim stands up abruptly, slapping his hand against the table as he does. "I'm bringing that piece of shit in, and I'm going to rip every single piece of information he has on Boyd Crowder out of his lying fucking mouth." 

  

\-- 

  

Johnny's looks exactly the same, and it feels to Tim like that's some kind of betrayal. He steps through the door and wonders if Boyd even knows Jimmy is dead. Probably not, unless Colton has broken his cover and told Boyd who he really works for. Tim thinks he would find a sick satisfaction in being the one to tell Boyd. At least, only if he could tie the man to a chair, beat him within an inch of his life, and then spit it in his face, so he knew exactly why Tim was torturing him. Because he wants to, god he wants to. We wants to rip the skin of Boyd Crowder's bones for what he did to Jimmy. For using him, for lying to him, for getting him wrapped up in this mess in the first place. 

"Deputy Guts." Boyd calls from behind the bar. Tim was used to seeing Jimmy there, and for a moment he sees red. He thinks he'd probably act on it, on all of it. He'd storm across the room and rip Boy Crowder's teeth out, if he didn't have a Raylan and Rachel at his back. 

"Colton Rhodes. You're under arrest for the assault of Martin Carmichael." Raylan says, stepping around Tim to approach Colton. Tim hadn't even seen him, still doesn't really see him. Regardless of the fact that Colton Rhodes is the one who had come to his own home to kill Jimmy, had probably been responsible for the shooter finding them, he's not the one Tim hates the most. That's still Boyd. Boyd, who is standing there, smiling at Tim like it's a good day. Tim knows then that Boyd doesn't know. Any of it. Tim feels a smile of his own split his face painfully. 

"And for being a Dixie Mafia piece of garbage who had a hand in the death of Jimmy Tolan." Tim says, watching Boyd. He sees the moment it all registers in the man's head, and the brief look of pain in the man's eyes, makes Tim's heart feel lighter with a sickening type of glee.


	20. I love, I love, I love Raylan.

WEDNESDAY IX 

  

Tim stands at attention in the middle of the nearly empty church, and listens to the priest talk about a man neither of them had really known. The alter boys look confused by the fact that Tim is alone, staring at him with an odd sort of wonder. Jimmy's casket is open, but Tim can't bring himself to step close enough to look down at the kid. He looks as handsome as he had in life, and it makes Tim want to scream. The priest says the right things, skips over the part where he's supposed to ask if anybody had any words, and then stands by patiently, waiting for Tim to move. Tim looks up at the man, notices that he looks sad. He must be used to funerals, and Tim wonders if the man feels more sorry for Tim losing Jimmy, or for Jimmy having nobody at his funeral. Tim isn't even sure who _he_ feels worse for.  

"Mr. Gutterson." the funeral director says, gently, from somewhere behind Tim. "Whenever you're ready, we will leave for the cemetery. The hearse is out front." 

"Can someone close the coffin?" Tim asks, trying to ignore the way his voice breaks. He knows that he kept Raylan awake the night before with his pacing around the motel. Chilli had followed him back and forth, meowing sadly up at him. Tim had realized angrily that Chillipepper was the last one to be hugged by Jimmy, to receive affection, and give it in return. He'd somehow managed to keep himself from crying though, and he just hopes that he doesn't start now. 

"Of course." the director tells him. Men start moving passed Tim, men he doesn't know. Some work for the funeral parlor, some for the church, and one just happens to be related to the priest. They'd all given Tim the same looks the alter boys had given him. Confusion, sympathy, the pinch in their lips that means they want to ask questions. Tim follows behind them slowly, waiting for the coffin to be closed, so he doesn't have to look at Jimmy. 

"You take the front right." someone tells Tim. He just nods numbly, moves to the spot he's supposed to lift The metal bar is cold under his hand, and Tim almost jerks away from it. Tim has to close his eyes, force himself to keep moving. He wants to stop, wants to drop to his knees and drag Jimmy's body from the casket, hold him in his arms and stay there with him. He pushes though, forces his shaking hand to curl around the bar, forces his muscles to work, when the men tell him to pick it up. He lifts the casket, let's the weight of it drop onto his shoulder. It's his left, his good one, but it pulls at his chest, shoots pain through his right shoulder as his newly healed muscles try to flex, try to support Jimmy's weight.

"Mr. Gutterson." the funeral director says, softer even than he spoke before. Tim blinks his eyes open, sees the man and the priest staring sadly at him. He knows he has to walk, has to move, has to carry Jimmy's body out of the doors, out of the world for good. He sucks in a breath, pulling air into his lungs, feels it rattle around in his chest like it's trying to break out. He moves, and the men move with him. It hits him like a punch to the gut that they move as one. They move as a unit, like a _unit._ It's familiar, and the feeling of moving in time with these men makes him sick. The casket isn't heavy between them, but he feels it pushing him down. Feels himself being crushed under the weight of Jimmy's death. 

The breath that had been trying to escape his chest finally breaks though, tearing through his throat as a sob. His arms start to shake, and the coffin slips a little against his shoulder. Tears burn against his cheeks, and his choking breaths echo in the horribly empty church. He hates forcefully that he needs these men to help carry him carry Jimmy's body. He wants to take it himself, let the whole of his rest on his shoulder. He focuses on the pain in his chest, the way the pressure on his left shoulder matches the ache in his right. He almost wishes he was on the other side, wishes he could feel the weight tearing into his destroyed shoulder, wishes he was breaking physically the way he felt he was breaking in his soul. 

The toes of his dress shoes catch on the steps out of the church, and Tim doesn't think he'd really mind if he fell down them. He's nearly unaware as they slide the casket into the hearse. The doors close, and Tim feels suddenly empty with the realization that he'll never see Jimmy's face again. He turns away, heads to his truck before he does something stupid like ask them to pull the coffin back out, so he can open the lid and look down at Jimmy one last time. 

  

\-- 

  

The graveyard is large, filled with expensive headstones and tombs for old families. Tim thinks Jimmy might have liked to be buried in Harlan, or maybe even in New Mexico, but Tim was far too selfish to let the man go like that. Lexington was where Tim was, and Jimmy would be here too. Tim watches the casket get settled into the contraption that will lower it, watches the funeral director place a wreath of flowers atop it. The man gives Tim a sad smile, and then he's gone. Tim is left standing alone in the cemetery, staring at the headstone he'd had rush made. 

 _Jimmy_ _Tol_ _an_ _, 1983-2013, Beloved_. 

The wind whips his jacket around the tops of his thighs. The material of his dress uniform had grown stiff since he'd last worn it. Another funeral, for another man Tim had kissed. Tim laughs suddenly, realizing that he might be cursed. Wish Wash, David, the faceless soldier who took his virginity, and now Jimmy. He kisses men, and men die. He wonders if the boy he kissed in high school is dead. Maybe MP Sykes got killed too. It's not like anybody would have called him to let him know. 

"I'm sorry." Tim whispers, his voice shaking. "I'm sorry I got you killed. I should have left you alone. I should have let you go." 

"He chose his life." a voice says behind him. Tim startles, wonders how the fuck he didn't hear the man walking up behind him. 

"Why are you here?" Tim asks, wiping the tears from his eyes as he turns around. 

"Because you are." Raylan says, shrugging. He makes it sound simple. To him, it probably is. 

"I didn't even tell you where he was being buried." Tim says. 

"I'm good at my job." Raylan smiles, and Tim feels like all of the energy is suddenly drained from his body. He sways forward, letting himself be caught by Raylan. He presses his face into Raylan's neck, breathing in the scent of his aftershave. It, honestly, smells like ass. Tim hates it, but he doesn't care, not now. He brings his hands up to clutch at Raylan's shirt, feeling Raylan's heart beating against his knuckles. 

"I'm not good for you." Tim says into Raylan's skin.  

" _I'm_ not good for anyone." Raylan says, turning his face so he's talking into Tim's hair. Tim feels Raylan's mouth brush against the skin of his temple, and he shivers. 

"You're in love with me." Tim says, aware he probably sounds a little hysterical. "You love me, and you came to be with me while I bury a man you hated because I wanted him. This is so fucked up, Raylan, fucking hell."  

"I hated him because you wanted him." Raylan repeats, sounding like he might start laughing. "Maybe, but I hate it more seeing you hurt." 

Tim shakes his head, lifting his chin from Raylan's shoulder. He squeezes his eyes shut, and tries not to think about what he's doing too much. Just thinks to himself that he hopes that he isn't actually cursed, and surges up to kiss Raylan. He kisses Tim back without any hesitation, just wraps his arms tightly around Tim's waist, pulling their chest together. Tim breaths into Raylan's mouth, and ignores the fact that he's on his tippy toes to do it. 

  

\-- 

  

Tim is running his thumb across his bottom lip, and catches Raylan smirking at him. Tim drops his hand with a scowl, forcing himself to focus back in on what Art is saying. 

"So what you're basically saying is, Rhodes can't be touched." Art sighs. 

"This is bullshit." Rachel says, raising her eyebrows in the direction of the FBI agent standing in the conference room with them. 

"Dixie Mafia is handled by us, exclusively. Rhodes' warrant demands he be transported back to the state the crime was committed in so it can be handled there." the agent says, sounding bored. 

"We're the ones who," Raylan starts. 

"You're not cops." the agents snaps, cutting him off. "I don't know when the hell your office got into your heads that you can run around investigating people like you're detectives, but you don't seem to know how this actually works. Rhodes comes with me, end of story." 

  

\-- 

  

Tim lets himself into the motel room, and Chillipepper wastes no time in climbing his leg. The cat's nails dig painfully into his skin through his jeans, but he doesn't care. He sits on the edge of the bed and let's Chilli perch on his lap. The cat meows up at him, and Tim reaches down to pet him gently. Tim knows Raylan is right behind him, and he finds himself wishing Art would let him go _home_. He wants to be in his own bed, with his own things surrounding him. He wants to not be in the same room as Raylan. Art said he couldn't go home until the Berger case was closed, threatened to have him arrested if he didn't comply. 

Chillipepper raises up and arches his back when the door opens. He doesn't hiss when he sees Raylan though, which is an improvement. Raylan smiles softly at Tim, and it makes Tim stomach hurt. 

"Hi." Raylan says, stepping towards Tim. Chillipepper runs when he sees Raylan coming towards them, and Tim thinks the cat might have the right idea. 

"We'd have saved ourselves a lot of trouble if we'd shot Colton and that other guy when they were at my house." Tim grumbles. "Remind me why we didn't do that?" 

"You said you weren't going to shoot anybody with Mark in the house." Raylan smirks, stepping between Tim's knees. Tim looks up Raylan's body, trying to figure out what he's supposed to do.  

"Speaking of, I need to go visit him. Sam wasn't happy about me bringing Chilli with me last time, and I need to make sure everything is still okay." Tim says, his voice coming out softer than he tries to make it. 

"I'll drive you." Raylan says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from Tim's forehead. Tim doesn't know when his hair got so long, but it keeps almost getting in his eyes. He hasn't bothered putting product in it for a few days, and he wonders if Raylan thinks about touching his hair a lot. 

"You don't have to." Tim says, folding his thumb against his palm. He squeezes, hard enough to pop the joint.  

"If you don't want me to, I won't. Do you not want me there?" Raylan shrugs. He confirms Tim's suspicions by running his hand through Tim's hair. Tim let's his eyes flutter closed, and shudders at the feeling. It feels good. He's reminded of Winona brushing her fingers through his hair, and wonders why this feels so different. Raylan's hands, which distract Tim almost daily, pressed against Tim's scalp, make him feel like he's burning. He realizes with a start that no man has ever touched his hair like this. He's only ever had it pulled, and he never would have imagined that _this_ would feel better.  

"I want you." Tim says. They both pretend like he was just answering Raylan's question. 

  

\-- 

  

 **Sam** **Wilson [0745]:** THIS is the hot cowboy you and Mark talk about? 

 **Outgoing [0747]:** You're texting me when we're in the same room. 

 **Sam** **Wilson [0748]:** That is the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life. Please tell me you're going to have sex with him. 

 **Sam** **Wilson [0748]:** Cause if not I'm calling my husband and asking if he's down for a threesome. 

 **Sam** **Wilson [0749]:** Even his redneck voice is sexy wtf. 

Tim looks up from his phone to glare at Sam. They're sitting in Mark's room, while Raylan stands in the doorway, talking on the phone. Sam nods his head in the direction of Raylan's ass, and gives Tim a thumbs up. 

"Grossly unprofessional." Tim tells him, scowling. 

"Gimme'." Mark says, grabbing for Tim's phone. Tim hands it to him, and Mark snorts out a laugh. "Stay away, Sam. I'm still trying to make progress." 

"Art's got news." Raylan tells Tim, turning over his shoulder. He's holding his phone down by his side, but Tim can tell the call it still connected. 

"Bad news?" Tim sighs. 

"Lyman Berger is dead." Raylan says, sounding like he's never been happier about anything in his life. 

"Boyd?" Tim asks. 

"Unfortunately not dead." Raylan shrugs. 

"No, dipshit, did Boyd kill him?" Tim laughs. 

"Oh, probably." Raylan laughs with him. 

"You know," Sam says. "If I heard about your life without being here to witness it, I'd never believe it." 


	21. Just let me go, Mark

MONDAY XVII

Raylan sits in the plastic chair and watches the doctor rotate Tim's shoulder gently. His hands are cold, but his palms feel slick and he fights the urge to rub them on the thigh of his jeans like he does when he's nervous. Even under these harsh fluorescent lights Tim is beautiful. Hell, even when the man's face had been littered with bruises and cuts, Raylan had thought so.  

"You've fully healed, Deputy Gutterson. Impressive, actually." The doctor says, letting Tim's arm drop to his side. "I expected more permanent damage, but there is almost none." 

"Damn stubborn bastard can beat a bullet wound in a battle of wits." Raylan says, standing to let the doctor squeeze into the space next to the computer. Raylan hadn't been to a VA clinic himself in years, and he'd forgotten just how small and discouraging they were.  

"What can I say, I'm invincible." Tim says, flashing a smirk. Raylan's breath stalls in his throat at the sight, wishing Tim smiled more. Or, at all, really. Raylan misses seeing happiness in Tim's eyes. Most of the time these days, he sees nothing. 

"Let's try not to test your theory too much, Deputy Gutterson." the doctor says. Raylan had been told his name, but he's already forgotten. He's nice enough, an old Hispanic man who knows how to handle a man like Tim. Gentle and quiet, his bedside manner reflects how long he's worked with veterans.  

Tim laughs through his nose, sliding off the exam table to stand next to Raylan. He's so close in the small space that Raylan's hand brushes against his hip. It's a familiar feeling by now, being so close together. Tim's landlord had caught wind of the mob showing up around Tim's place and promptly evicted him. Tim had decided to just stay living with Raylan at the motel until he found a new place. It was torture. Every time Raylan shared a bed with Tim, a foot of space between them, it drove home how much he couldn't have Tim. How much Tim didn't love him back.

Raylan thinks Tim has lost his mind. He doesn't understand the shit with Jimmy, he never did. Raylan's pseudo-relationship with Boyd Crowder was old, ran deep in both of them. Jimmy Tolan shouldn't have been anything. Raylan would be tempted to just blame it all on Jimmy's admittedly pretty face, but he knows Tim doesn't work like that. Tim cared about someone he shouldn't have. Not to mention how involved with Boyd Crowder he'd almost gotten. He'd called Boyd his friend, and that made Raylan's stomach turn. There was something Raylan wasn't seeing, something he expected Tim didn't even understand. He was watching Tim spiral and it was breaking his heart.

\--

 

Raylan watches Tim unlace his boots, and wonders if he feels as bad or worse than he looks. The threat of Tim up and quitting the department one day still hangs in the air, but he's yet to pull that particular trigger. He spends all his time working himself to the bone, taking every possible job he can. Raylan feels him get out of bed more times a night than he can even count, and wakes up every day to find Tim already dressed and drinking take-away coffee from down the street.

"Tim, you gonna go see Mark before dinner?" Raylan asks. He doesn't want Tim to leave, but he knows Mark is the only one who can keep Tim sane. Which, when he really thinks about, is one fucking sad fact.

"It's group game night at Falcon." Tim chuckles. "Mark says it's basically torture to go through, but I'll leave him to it."

Raylan doesn't have anything to say to that, so he just nods. Tim grabs some clothes from the dresser drawer that has become his, and disappears into the bathroom to change. His little dustball of a cat appears from the closet and follows him into the bathroom. Raylan knows he's kind of an asshole for wishing Tim would change where he could be seen, but he's used to being an asshole. He's seen Tim as close to naked as a man can get, but never been able to touch. It still makes his palms itch, but he settles himself with jacking off in the shower every morning as he washes the scent of Tim from his body.

"And we're eating actual vegetables for dinner, by the way." Tim calls from the bathroom.

"Tomatoes are vegetables, and they make up at least thirty percent of a pizza." Raylan argues.

"Tomatoes are a fruit, dumbass." Tim chuckles, stepping back into the room with the cat cradled in his arms. Raylan is torn between wishing Tim didn't own a single tank top, and wishing it was all he ever wore.

"Whatever. You care so much about what we eat for dinner, you order it." Raylan says, dropping himself onto the bed. He spreads himself out, mostly for comfort, but also because it means Tim will have to crowd him if he wants to get onto the bed too.

Raylan wonders if it would be easier or harder to live with Tim if the man didn't know he was in love with him. He'd kept it to himself for so long, it had been a relief when he'd first said it. Of course, as soon as Tim made it clear Raylan could shove his feelings up his ass, it started to feel like shit. Winona had figured out how Raylan felt about Tim before Raylan was even fully aware of it himself. She'd told him over and over again that he should tell Tim how he felt. Raylan got no satisfaction telling her he told her so when it turned out to be a huge mistake.

 

TUESDAY XVII

 

If Tim knew that Raylan had been coming here, he'd probably be angry with them both. Raylan doesn't feel guilty about lying to Tim, but he does worry that Mark is going to slip up one day. He doesn't seem good at keeping secrets from Tim.

"You should cook for him." Mark says, shrugging. Raylan hasn't known Mark for that long, but even he can see that Mark is about twenty pounds lighter than the first time they'd met. His cardigan hangs off his bony shoulders like he's no bigger than a hanger. Raylan has seen a picture of what Mark looked like in the war, at least twice as wide as he is today. It makes Raylan feel uncomfortable to see how messed up this guy is, when he knows just how much Tim relies on him.

"I'm not trying to romance him, I'm trying to help him." Raylan says, turning to look at Mark's blank walls instead of the man's thin face.

"Same thing, my friend." Mark laughs. "The only thing that will help him is if he finally gets his head out of his ass and realizes he was projecting the whole time."

"What are you talking about?" Raylan asks, feeling, not for the first time, that Mark might actually be smarter than the rest of them.

"Did you know the day you went missing, and he went to Boyd's place? Boyd was under the impression that day that you and Tim were a couple. He took one look at Tim and saw 'In Love With Raylan Givens' written across his forehead." Mark sighs, and Raylan sees him push himself off of his bed to dig around one of his nightstand drawers. "He became obsessed with Boyd because of that, and only because of that. Because Boyd saw things in him he didn't want to see in himself."

"You're trying to tell me Tim loves me?" Raylan scoffs.

"I'm trying to tell you the only reason Tim felt anything at all for Jimmy was because he was trying so hard to feel nothing for you. He had love inside him that needed to go somewhere. Jimmy was convenient, because Jimmy was never going to call him on anything." Mark says, pulling a burner phone out of his nightstand.

"That doesn't make sense." Raylan says, frowning at Mark.

"Here, read these." Mark says, thrusting the phone into Raylan's hands.

 **Incoming [0456]:** You think I don't know all of that?

 **Outgoing [0457]:** i think u don't want 2 admit jimmy was jst an excuse

 **Incoming [0457]:** I know that too.

 **Outgoing [0458]:** raylan loves u a lot

 **Incoming [0459]:** I know.

 **Outgoing [0500]:** u love him 2

 **Incoming [0517]:** Yeah. I know.


	22. While Tim sang the blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment we've all been waiting for. Kind of.
> 
> Five points if you can find the abundance of One Direction references in this chapter.
> 
> Edit: changed a few things because guess who totally forgot that Tim has a cat.

WEDNESDAY XVII

  

Raylan doesn't wake up when Tim gets out of bed, but he does roll over into the space where Tim's body heat is still soaked into the sheets. Chillipepper is laying on Tim's pillow, doesn't even move when Raylan's hand brushes his flank. Tim hesitates, watching Raylan wrinkle his nose in his sleep. It's adorable, and Tim wants to kick himself in the face for thinking of Raylan Givens as adorable. The man was a lot of things, but none of them sweet things. Tim had been blind sided when he'd come to the painful realization that he _loved_ this man. Loved him in a way he didn't think he'd ever feel. It was different from Wish Wash. With Wish Wash it had been a rush, a flood of feelings in a too tight space, making Tim's skin itch and his lungs burn. Raylan was smoother, calmer. A low simmer under his skin that made him feel _everything_ all at once whenever he looked at Raylan. It had grown slowly, without Tim even noticing. Tim knew though, that loving Raylan would never be _easy_. Love was never, ever easy. 

Tim looks at Raylan now, watching him sleep curled around Chillipepper's little form, and he feels _so_ much. He can't name it all, so he just files it all away, calls the emotion _Raylan_. He reaches out and brushes his fingers through Raylan's hair, just to see Raylan crinkle his nose again. It's a testimant to how used they've gotten to each other in a short time, the fact that Raylan doesn't start awake when Tim touches him. Raylan's hair is too long where Tim runs it through his fingers. He's still so beautiful, though. Tim doesn't categorize his beauty in the same way, not anymore. Tim had always known Raylan was gorgeous, of course. There was just something else now, though. Something that had clicked inside Tim when he'd kissed Raylan. Raylan wasn't just beautiful because of how he looked, but because of how he made Tim feel. Tim sighs to himself, feels the air leave his body in a painful rush.

He has no idea what the fuck he's going to do now.

 

\--

 

Tim had been right, Boyd Crowder's smile looked lovely when bloody.

"Well I suppose I might have deserved that." Boyd laughs, wiping at his chin. Tim is sure in that moment that Boyd never has been, and never will be afraid of him.

"That was sexy as hell." Raylan says, winking lewdly when Tim turns to scowl at him.

"That was for not being by to visit Jimmy's grave. Count yourself lucky I don't feel like making good on all the rest of the reasons I'd like to hit you." Tim tells him before stepping away. He slips out of the conference room and goes back to his desk. He's pretty sure everyone in the office saw him hit Boyd, but he's also pretty sure no one is going to be stupid enough to call him on it. Boyd was only here to swear that, _oh gee, I sure didn't kill that Lyman Berger so many weeks ago_. Tim imagined that Boyd's real reson for chatting up Raylan was more nefarious, but he decided not to think about it. Boyd seemed to be under the impression that it was whoever Lyman had worked for was behind Lyman's death. Or so he kept saying to anybody who would listen, as it seemed. The theory made sense, though, was one Tim had already thought of. You hire a guy to deliver a truckfull of weed and end up with a federal incident, you're bound to be annoyed. 

Tim is jerked out of his thoughts when a stack of paper lands on his desk, accompanied by Art's looming presence.

"This is horseshit." Art says, gesturing to the stack like it's personally offensive to him.

"Which part?" Tim asks, aiming for cool but probably just sounding tired.

"The part where Vasquez claims you're an alcoholic." Art scoffs in his _I'm-too-old-for-this-shit_ voice. "The only drinking problem you have is that you don't do it enough."

"Well has it ever occured to you, Art, that I don't drink _because_ I'm an alcoholic?" Tim asks, gesturing to the water bottle on his desk like it's somehow proof of his claims.

"Like I said, horeshit." Art grumbles, reaching down to flip to through the file he'd tossed down. "Half of this is horeshit. Fuck's sake Tim, the actual reason I suspended you isn't even in here. They want it to sound dramatic then put down the truth, it was plenty dramatic, even by your standards."

"You thinking I was sleeping with the CI who I later got killed reads a lot worse than a drinking problem. Booze is less likley to get me fired." Tim shrugs, pretending like the way Art's eyes suddenly go soft doesn't bother him.

"Tim, you get fired before you die or finally quit, and I'll write you a letter of recomendation so glowing even Elton John would think it was too sparkly." Art assures him.

"Art, did you just make a gay refernce to try and make me feel comfortable? Is that what just happened?" Tim laughs, and Art's face screws up like he's torn between being offended and laughing right along with Tim.

"I happen to _like_ Elton John, thank you very much." Art says, snatching the file back from Tim's desk.

"Even I don't like Elton John, Art. This is Kentucky." Tim says, watching over Art's shoulder and Boyd Crowder exits the conference room with Raylan's hand between his shoulder blades. Boyd winks at Tim as he walks by, and Tim makes an effort to not move a single muscle in his face.

"Don't be an asshole, Tim. I'm the only thing standing between you and this bullshit investigation Vasquez has started." Art sighs. "Why can't he just leave my people alone for once."

"Aw, shit, we love you too, Chief." Raylan says, stepping up behind Art and making like he's going to try and hug him.

"No, Raylan, not you. Vasquez comes for you he can have you." Art says, turning out of Raylan grasp and heading back into his office.

"I thought I was your favorite?" Raylan smiles.

"Rachel is my favorite." Art calls over his shoulder, before shutting his door and cutting off whatever Raylan might have said next.

"Well, at least he's back to being in a good mood." Raylan says, smiling at Tim. "Now, why don't you and I get some work done while you're still around to do my bidding."

Tim thinks, but doesn't say, that he's been picturing a future where he does a lot of Raylan's bidding.

 

\--

 

"Well I suppose this really isn't Boyd's style, now is it." Raylan says, flapping the picture of Lyman Berger's corpse in front of Tim's face. They're sitting in Raylan's car while Raylan has, unsurprisingly, stopped for ice cream. Ice cream with a side of crime scene photos he shouldn't even legally have.

"Not our case, Raylan." Tim says, batting the glossy five-by-eight of a headless body away from him.

"You're no fun." Raylan huffs, dropping the picture without care. It slides between his car seat and the center console, and Tim figures he'll probably forget it's there. Raylan doesn't say anything else, just goes back to eating his ice cream.

Tim knows that Raylan only dragged him out of the office to save Tim from Vasqueaz. He's grateful. He knows it's never really going to go away, all the ways he fucked up with Jimmy. Even without a messy circumstances, and CI dying while in the company of a Marshal was a big deal. It was a career ending deal. Tim isn't even sure if he wants to save his career or not. His head is still a mess, like nothing has been sorted out at all. Mark is still a problem, Boyd is still a problem, he's still never returned that damn library book, his own damn head is an even bigger problem than ever. The man sitting next to him, who he loves and who loves him back, is most certainly a problem. That is, assuming Raylan still even loves him. Tim wouldn't blame him if he didn't. Wouldn't blame him at all if he had realized somewhere in the last few months that Tim wasn't worth it.

"Hey, Tim." Raylan says, his voice soft in a way Tim hasn't really heard before. When he turns though, there is no mistaking whats in Raylan's eyes. "You're thinking really loudly."

Tim barley has time to exhale before Raylan is kissing him. 

Tim doesn't let himself think about anything after that. He just reaches up and knocks Raylan's hat off his head, leans back so he's is against the door and Raylan's body is pressing against his over the center console. Raylan smells like the chocolate of his ice cream, and the sweat from wearing that stupid hat in this heat. Tim doesn't want to classify the sound he makes when Raylan opens his mouth against his, but he knows it's desperate. A lot like the sounds he'd make in the dessert when he finally got clean wtaer to drink, and fuck, if it doesn't feel like it too. Feels like something he's been missing for so long. It's nothing like the first time he'd kissed Raylan. That had been about how he'd been feeling. This kiss is quickly becoming more about how Raylan's pecs feel when Tim runs his hands down the front of his shirt. Tim's shoulder hurts when Raylan's weight is pinning it against the door. Shit, does it hurt, but he doesn't care. Not when Raylan's grunting into his mouth, touching his thighs, making Tim shiver. Tim can't even focus on all the places he and Raylan are touching. Except for when Raylan's hand slides up under his shirt, touches the dip of his spine just above his pants. That he's aware of, because that is fucking electric.

"Raylan." Tim whispers, which makes Raylan groan, grip Tim tighter. "Raylan." Tim says again, making it clear he wants the man's attention.

"Tim, shit, what is it?" Raylan asks, looking at Tim like he really hopes this is important. Tim smiles, reaching up to touch the corner of Raylan's pinhced mouth.

"Take me back to your motel." Tim says.

 


	23. A little ditty 'bout Tim and Raylan.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who has been with this fic from day one.  
> Two years ago I met Jacob Pitts for the first in a bar in New York, where I drunkenly looked him dead in the eye and asked him if he was a top or bottom. He just responded, "depends on the weather." 
> 
> Thank you, and farewell.

THURSDAY XVII

 

Sex with Raylan wasn't anything like Tim had imagined. It wasn't anything like Tim had ever experianced either. Probably because he'd never been fucked by someone he was in love with before. He'd never had someone whisper _I love you_ into the skin of his neck while rocking into him slowly. He'd never had tears in his eyes when he came, completley untouched, from how good someone felt inside him. He'd certainly never had anyone do half the things Raylan Givens could do with his tongue. Most oddly, he'd never been held. It wasn't something he'd thought about before. Sex had always been done when it was done. With Raylan, Tim wasn't sure where it actually stopped. Raylan stayed on top of him, kissing him, mouthing at his neck. Then he'd just grabbed Tim around the waist, rolled them over, and laid there. In the wet spots, with sweat and cum drying between their bellies. He'd looked at Tim, smiled at him, ran his fingers through his hair. Tim had kept waiting for him to get up and go to thebathroom, but he never did. 

Which is how Tim wakes up, with Raylan's hair in his mouth, and their legs tangled together. Another thing he'd never had before, is someone's morning breath in his mouth.

 

\--

 

"You know Art's wrong, right?" Tim asks, rubbing his cheek against Raylan's shoulder. Standing behind him like he is, it's the only place he can really touch Raylan without it being obvious. "This isn't over, not even close."

"It is for us, for now." Raylan says. He leans forward to push one of the buttons on the elevator. When he leans back Tim smirks, seeing that he's pushed all of them. The elevator slows, stops on the second floor, and the door open to an empty hallway.

"Whoever killed Jimmy is still out there. So is whoever killed Lyman, assuming they aren't the same person." Tim says, leaning forward to rest his forhead on Raylan's shoulder as the doors shut again.

"Them along with the entire rest of the Dixie Mafia. Solving crimes isn't what we do, Tim." Raylan says, using his gentlest _I'm-just-trying-to-be-smart-about-this_ voice. He reaches back and brushes his hand gently against Tim's hip. Tim has more control over himself than to shiver at the contact, but his skin tingles when he thinks of the way his hips had little cresent moon scratches from Raylan digging his nails in.

"Either way, it's not over. We know Dixie is operating in Harlan, and we know they and Boyd aren't going to just let bygons be." Tim mumbles, straightening up when the elevator doors open, this time on the third floor. A woman walks passed in the hallway, turning to look at them, raising an eyebrow when they make no move to step off the elvator. Raylan must smile at her, because she blushes and ducks her head before hurrying down the hall. 

"Yeah, sweetheart, I get all that." Raylan sighs, turning suddenly to face Tim. It feels like the elevator is going too fast now, like it's rushing them towards prying eyes and questions unasked. 

"It's not over." Tim says, looking up at Raylan and trying to keep his mask in place, trying not to let it slip into his eyes that he wishes the elvator would stop and stand still forever.

"No, but right now, it's far away from us." Raylan says. The elevator starts to come to a stop at the top floor, the floor they'll get off on. Raylan smiles at Tim, in a soft and horribly affectionate way.

"You don't really think Jimmy will ever be that far away from me, do you?" Tim asks, watches Raylan carefully. Raylan's smile doesn't falter, he doesn't even get that stormy look in his eyes he used to get whenever Tim talked about Jimmy when the man was still alive.

"I wouldn't expect him to, no." Raylan says. The doors ping open behind him, and Tim sees the subtle way Raylan's shoulders tense. "Now, Deputy Gutterson, let's go to work."

 

\--

 

Tim pointedly avoids looking at Raylan. He knows that the man is only sitting like _that_ to try and get Tim to look, to get his mask to waver. Tim also knows that if he does look, if he really takes in the way Raylan's long legs are propped up on his desk, spread a little to far to be natural, it might just kill him. Besides, Rachel is still talking to him, and he knows how smart she is. He looks at Raylan now, and she'll know everything. Tim thinks it would be terribly funny in the worst way if, after everything, he finally got himself fired for fucking his co-worker.

"Or I could take Raylan." Rachel snaps, seemingly annoyed that Tim wasn't really listening.

"That sounds like a terrible idea to me." Tim says, shrugging like he doesn't have a care in the world. 

"Well I'm sure as shit not taking Nelson. So are you coming, or what?" Rachel asks, crossing her arms and giving him a look that matches her _I'm-gonna-be-the-boss-one-day_ voice.

"I need Tim." Raylan says, not looking up from the little book in his hands. Tim is pretty sure it's a children's activity book, but he doesn't ask, because he doesn't want to know.

"Need Tim for what?" Rachel asks, narrowing her eyes at Raylan.

"Prisoner transport." Raylan says, casually, like he volunteers for prisoner transport every day of his life. Tim just sighs, resigns himself to the fact that Raylan might as well shout _my dick was inside Deputy Gutterson six hours ago_ from the roof with how obvious he is. The man can't have an affair to save his life.

 

 

 

 -- 

 

"You're an asshole." Tim says, leaning against the wall while they wait for the prisoner to be done with her doctor's appointment.

"What did I do now?" Raylan laughs, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.

"I love you." is how Tim responds. 

Raylan stops laughing, but his eye stay crinkled up as he leans in and whispers,

" _I god damn told you so, Tim, my love._ "

 

 

EPILOGUE, FIVE YEARS LATER

 

SATURDAY CCLX

Tim tugs at the bottom of his jacket for what is probably the tenth time.

“The only thing you’re accomplishing by that is wrinkling it. And since I’m the one who steamed it, I’m gonna have to slap you if you do it again.” Sam says, scowling at Tim. He would look more intimidating if he wasn’t lounging on the chaise with a glass of champagne in his hand.

“You’re not slapping anybody.” his husband tells him. Tim had only met Steve twice before he had decided that man was his favorite person in the world. And it wasn’t just because he was shorter than Tim by a couple of inches. It was because he was the only one that Tim could safely say  _everybody_  was afraid of.

“He’s messing up my hard work.” Sam complains, reaching out and tugging gently on Steve’s hand. “And you’re not even cuddling with me. Why aren’t you cuddling with me?” 

“I think that’s enough alcohol, Doc.” Mark scoffs as he steps back into the room. He’s holding four jewlery boxes in his hands, and Tim frowns at them. Mark is followed by Milkovich, who is just arriving, an hour late. Milkovich waves at Tim, but he seems distracted with looking at where Sam has managed to get Steve to cuddle with him on the chaise. Sam whispers something to Steve, who blushes all the way down to the top of his shirt.

“You want to talk about wrinkling a suit.” Steve grumbles.

“Seriously, champagne. No more.” Mark says. “Holy fuck, I’m telling my god damn NA coach to stop drinking. The world is not okay.” 

“Mark is right, honey. No more alcohol for now.” Steve plucks the glass from Sam’s fingers, downing the rest of the champage in one swift swallow. Sam pouts, but doesn’t even try to argue. He just wraps his arm tighter around Steve’s waist.

“I haven’t been your  _anything_  for five years now, Sergeant. I don’t have to make a good impression. I’m only here for my good friend, Tiny Tim.” Sam mumbles before ducking his face into Steve’s neck.

“Okay, well anyway. More pressing matters.” Mark says, holding up the boxes. “Two Percent here brought the last piece, and since we’re all here, the presentation process can begin.”

“Yeah. Hi, by the way. Congratulations, I love your guts, all that.” Milkovich says. He steps around Mark, moving towards Tim with his arm thrown out for a hug. He has his dress uniform on, the sleeve on the left pinned neatly around the shoulder where his arm stopped. His left pant leg flutters around the thin shaft of his prosthetic leg, and Tim tries not to stare. He doesn’t do it out of anything but guilt, still feeling the weight of his decision on his shoulders. It didn’t matter how many times Milkovich says he doesn’t blame Tim for what happened, Tim will never forgive himself for the kid getting hurt.

“It’s good to see you, man.” Tim says, letting Milkovich fold him into a hug. It doesn’t last long before Milkovich is slapping him on the back and pulling away, smiling brightly at Tim. “Thanks for agreeing, by the way. It means a lot to me.” Tim tells him.

“Are you kidding? I’m honored. More than honored!” Milkovich says.

“I have things, Guts. Things! For you.” Mark says, shoving Milkovich out of the way without ceremony. Milkovich just laughs, moving away to set himself in a chair.

“Tell us of these things.” Steve says, and Mark responds by thrusting the boxes he still has in his hands towards Tim, who takes them and sets them on the little table behind him, eyeing them suspiciously.

“Something old.” Mark says as Tim opens the first box. Sitting inside are Tim’s dog tags. They’re bent at the edges, the black silencers ripped and melted in parts. They didn’t have the dirt and blood on them that Tim had brought home with him anymore, so they just shone silver. He hadn’t cleaned them, but time had worn the smears of filth away. Tim had set them on the dresser just that morning, and he smiled down at the little box softly. 

Tim stands still as Mark plucks them from the box and slides them over Tim’s head. Mark tucks them under the collar of his shirt, ignoring the noises of protest Sam makes when he tugs at his tie, misplacing the work Sam had accomplished by fiddling with Tim’s clothes for half an hour. Mark gets the dog tags resting against his chest, and Tim decides to just let him leave his collar a mess. He has no doubt that Sam will fix it for him later. Tim shoots Mark an amused look as he reaches for the second box.

“Something new.” Mark and Steve say in unison. Inside this box is a set of cuff links. They are far from what would be regulation with the service uniform he’s wearing, but Tim has no shame to admit that they are beautiful. They are tiny black stones, cut roughly into natural shapes. They look sharp, but are smooth when Tim picks them up. They’re set in a red metal, which shines through some of the more transparent parts of the stones. It takes Tim a few moments to realize why Mark picked them. They look like coal.

Sam jumps up from the chaise in excitement when he realizes what Tim is holding. He actually lifts Steve off his feet when he stands, picking him up in a way that seems commonplace for both of them. Sam sets his husband back down gently, steadying him with care before he stalks towards Tim. It really is stalking, and Tim holds the cufflinks out to Sam like an offering. Sam turns them over in his hands for a few seconds before grabbing roughly for Tim’s wrist. He takes care with the suit though, touching it with more precision and care than Tim has ever shown with a piece of clothing. Sam had spent hours setting up all their respective uniforms the night before, and every pin was placed with near mathematical precision. Tim doesn’t think his ribbons and medals had ever been so well ordered in his life. Sam gets the cufflinks situated, and then frowns at the rest of Tim’s person, looking at all the things he wants to fix. Mark butts in before he can start fiddling though, pushing Sam away, and turning Tim back towards the third box.

“Something borrowed.” Mark, Sam, Steve, and Milkovich all say together this time. Or at least, they try to. They all speak at slightly different times, and if Tim didn’t know what they were going to say before they said it, he wouldn’t have understood. Tim opens the box to see a very familiar ring sitting there. Tim looks up at Sam in shock, only just now noticing he’s not wearing it. Sam had worn it every day for as long as Tim had known him. Sam avoids Tim’s eyes though, turning to look at Steve with a sad smile. Tim looks back down at the ring, feeling like he has no right to pick it up. The ring is very old, the metal rough and worn down. The shape of the wings looks almost soft, and Tim can see where the tips of both wings had gotten broke off. Tim knew Sam had worn this ring in Iraq, since that’s where it had been given to him. Sam’s first boyfriend, his co-pilot who had died in the war, had given it to him on their first anniversary. Tim knew exactly why Sam was giving this to him to wear today, and he felt something bubbling in his chest that he didn’t want to put a name to. 

This time it’s Steve who steps forward. He picks up the ring, turning it over in his thin fingers a few times. Tim just holds his right hand out silently, and Steve looks at Sam over his shoulder as he reaches out to take Tim’s wrist. His fingers are cold, as usual, and they feel fragile even as they grip tightly onto Tim. Steve slides the ring onto Tim’s middle finger, and hesitates a moment before letting him go. The ring fits perfectly, and Tim feels kind of strangely about it. Tim looks up at Sam again, and this time the man is looking directly at him. They nod to each other, and Tim turns back to the last box.

“Something blue.” Milkovich says on his own, standing up so he can come over to them. Something about his voice makes Tim hesitate to open the box. He knows this must be the thing Milkovich had brought with him, and he looks down at the black box with a lump in his throat. He must stare at it for too long, because Milkovich steps forward and picks it up, pushing it in Tim’s direction. He looks expectantly at Tim, his eyebrow raised in question. Tim feels his hand want to start shaking as he reaches forward and pulls the lid off.

Sitting in the box is a Distinguished Service Cross. Tim knows it isn’t his own, because he’d dowsed that one in whiskey and set in on fire a week after receiving it. He feels like he can’t breath as he looks down at it, remembering the day they’d both gotten them. General Milkovich had stood in front of Tim with tears in his eyes, and had whispered  _thank you for bringing my son home alive_  as he placed that fucking medal around Tim’s neck. Tim hadn’t wanted it, and he still didn’t want it.

“Milkovich.” Tim starts, but he isn’t sure what he wants to say.

“You always deserved it more than me. All I did that day was what you told me to. You deserved this more than anybody ever has. You got our entire battalion out of that fight, saved dozens of men. This medal belongs on your chest, especially today.” Milkovich tells him. Tim just stares in silence as Milkovich hands the box over to Mark so that he can pick the medal up. He pins it to Tim’s chest, below all of his other medals and ribbons, and it hangs against his ribs like an anvil.

“Man, you put that on crooked as shit.” Sam says angrily. “Get your gimp ass out the way so I can fix it. God damn, Sergeant Major, you look a god damn mess. What did I dress you for?”

Steve starts to laugh as Sam takes the Cross right back off, repinning it where he thinks it should be. Milkovich snorts a laugh of his own, and Mark says something to the room as Sam starts tugging on Tim again. He reaches up to readjust Tim’s beret, and Tim just let’s himself be manhandled again. He feels the weight of the medals on his chest, and for the first time in his life, he feels like Captain O’Neil might have been right.

\--

Tim stands in the grass between the doorway to the event hall and the curtain that hides him, watching as people fidget in their seats. There aren’t that many people here, but Tim can genuinely say he cares for every one of them. He takes a moment to think of Jimmy, wishing quietly that the man could have been here to see this. 

He thinks of Wish Wash then. He’d avoided it so far today, but when he finally does, it makes his heart feel light. Wish Wash had loved him, and Tim knows that whatever else he might have thought, he’d want Tim to be happy. Tim had loved Wish Wash with his whole heart, and there would always be a place carved away from him. He wouldn’t hold it against Tim that he loved again, bigger and more fully this time.

“We’re starting.” Mark says to Tim, touching his elbow gently. “You ready?”

“Fuck no.” Tim laughs, and Mark smiles at him. 

“Well too bad. Sam and Steve walk, then Milkovich and Winona, then me and Rachel, and then you have to strut your own stuff. Then your man materializes from wherever Winona has him stashed and we all  _oo_  and  _ahh_  appreciatively at his jaw line.” Mark says. Not for the first time, Tim wonders how the hell Mark has pulled all this off. When he’d agreed to let Mark plan all of this, he’d expected something else entirely. But this,  _this_ , was beautiful. The sky was blue above them, and the grass beneath their feet was too. Everything else in sight though, was white. The chairs, the arches that made the walkway, the flowers that seemed to be stuck to every surface available. Tim could even see a white flower sticking out of the pocket of Art’s black suit where the man was standing up at the front, waiting to officiate for the first time in his life.

“Thank you, babe.” Tim says, and Mark turns to him in surprise. “I mean it, for all of this. I love you.”

“Shit, babe.” Mark smiles softly. “Anything for you.”

\--

Tim feels like he’s been standing between Mark and Art for about a year. He’s sweating under his clothes, and he’s been holding his breath since he got here. He’d felt nervous enough just watching everyone walk down the aisle in front of him. He knew that it was only a few seconds in reality, but it felt like a lifetime passed before Raylan stepped out from behind the sheet that blocked the doorway from view. His eyes met Tim’s immediately, and Tim felt his breath leave him like he’d been punched in the stomach. He had known Raylan was going to look beautiful. He’d known that as soon as he saw him he’d think he was the most incredible thing he’d ever seen. He’d prepared himself to be knocked on his ass. The thing was though, he’d prepared himself for Raylan to step out in a tuxedo. He didn’t think there was anything in the world that could have prepared him for the sight of Raylan in his Marines dress blues. He had no ribbons, only a honorable discharge pin placed with perfect precision on his lapel. Tim internally cursed Sam, because he knows without a doubt that when he’d snuck off earlier it had been to help Raylan get dressed. He should have warned Tim, because Tim can feel how slack his jaw is, threatening to drop open. Raylan looks almost out of place in a hat besides his usual Stetson, like he felt uncomfortable in the regulation cap he had on. Tim sees it the moment Raylan registers Tim’s reaction though, because his smile turns amused, and his step sped up a little. The time it takes Raylan to make it to the front feels slow and cruel, but then Raylan is reaching for Tim’s hand, and Tim feels like his heart is just now beating for the very first time. He and Raylan stare at each other, and Tim can see the tears forming in the corner or Raylan’s eyes, even as his smile goes wider.

“Ladies and gentleman, we are gathered here today to witness the joining of two complete fools in holy matrimony.” Art says happily, and Tim feels a tear drip down his cheek as he starts to laugh.

\--

“He didn’t wear that to our wedding.” Winona says, waving her hand in Raylan’s direction. She almost smacks him in the face, and Tim watches her fingers as she does, watching the light glint of the gold nail polish she has on. “He loves you so much more than he ever even tried to love me.”

“Shit, Winona, how much have you had to drink? We haven’t even gotten into the reception yet.” Raylan asks with a laugh.

“She came out of the bathroom with that drink.” Rachel tells them, eyeing Winona with amusement.

“Also, is it weird that I’m the only one here not in some kind of uniform? It feels weird.” Winona says. Tim hadn’t really noticed that before, but it was almost true. Sam, Mark, and Rachel had all worn their respective dress uniforms as well. Tim had already had a sufficient amount of time to stare in awe at the fact that Sam seemed to have twice as many things pinned to his chest as the rest of them combined.

“Steve is in a tuxedo.” Tim tells her, and she makes a dismissive hand movement at him. Tim just smiles in response. Winona did look beautiful, though. Her dress was a floor length thing made of deep, navy lace. The only thing keeping her modest was the skin colored slip underneath it. Tim had come to understand that Winona would always be the most beautiful person in the room, no matter what. It was just her state of being.

“Whatever I’m right, though.” She smiles, taking another sip of her drink like she wants to prove a point by it. “About how much Raylan loves Tim. Way more than anybody has ever loved anybody else. I’m right about this.”

“Yes, you are.” Raylan tells her, but he’s staring at Tim while he does. 

“Okay, everyone shut up, groom party number one needs to go into the reception hall now.” Mark says suddenly, gesturing wildly at them with both hands.

“Which one is that? Is that us?” Sam asks. “I feel like it should be us. We should be number one”

“No!” Mark snaps. “That’s Raylan’s party. Winona, Rachel, go, get in the reception hall before Winona gets sloshed. Where the hell did you even get that booze? Jesus christ.”

There is a flurry of movement and action, and the men and women of honor start filing into the reception hall. Tim and Raylan just keep staring at each other. Mark barks an order for them to listen carefully for their cue to enter, and Tim just makes an affirmative gesture at him. He and Raylan are so focused on each other, it takes them a second to even realize they are alone.

“My husband.” Raylan whispers, and just hearing him say it for the first time sends a jolt of electricity up Tim’s spine.

“My husband.” Tim echoes back. He reaches for Raylan’s hand, and he feels something slide into place in his chest when Raylan twines their fingers together.

“You ready for this dance?” Raylan asks him with a smirk.

“As long as you’re ready for a few broken toes.” Tim says.

“That’s not the dance I meant.” Raylan tells him. And Tim just laughs, because he’s never been so ready for anything in his life.

\--

Tim falls into the chair next to Steve, and smiles brightly at him. Steve couldn’t dance much, so he and Tim were going to sit back and watch everyone else dance. Winona is trying to get Milkovich to dance around with her, but his fake leg is hindering him. Winona kicks at it gently, but they smile brightly at each other as they sway slightly back and forth. Milkovich’s hand is low on the small of Winona’s back, and Tim give the guy a mental high five from where he’s sitting. 

Steve get’s his attention then, knocking a fist against Tim’s leg and point to where their respective husband’s are dancing nearly tangled up in each other.

“So, are we going to pretend like that isn’t really hot?” Tim asks, tugging his tie and pulling it over his head. He’d lost his jacket a few hours ago, and so had Raylan. Tim thinks Mark had scooped them up and stuck them somewhere safe, but he wasn’t really sure. He didn’t care much, right now.

“Oh, no, that’s hot as  _hell_.” Steve laughs, not taking his eyes of the men. Raylan has his hands rubbing circles on Sam’s hips, pulling at the man’s shirt. He keeps shooting looks in Tim’s direction that tell Tim he knows  _exactly_  what he’s doing. He’d bet his left nut Sam is doing the exact same thing for Steve. It warms his heart to know he won’t be the only one having great sex tonight. He puts his fist out for Steve, and the man bumps it with his own. 

\--

Tim does a slow head count. Art and Rachel had both left hours ago, Winona is asleep with her head in Milkovich’s lap as he brushes his fingers through her hair gently, Sam and Steve are pulling impatiently at each other clothes by the door, and Mark is talking quietly to the band. The guests were all gone, and Tim and Raylan are standing on opposite sides of the room, just looking at each other. Raylan’s shirt is unbuttoned down his chest, exposing his skin to the room, and his sleeves are pushed up his arm’s sloppily.

Tim smiles at his husband, and the smile he gets in return is what makes him certain that this is the moment that everything is truly, finally,  _good_.


End file.
